A Line Against the Pane

A soft click sounded from the window frame. I stopped. Sunlight cut across the sill, warming the painted wood under my boots. I stepped forward, deliberate, until my wrapped fingers met the glass. Outside, branches swayed, brushing against the pane with a rhythmic scraping. The vibration traveled into the tips of my gloves. Steady. Unyielding. I leaned my weight forward, resting my forehead close to the chill of the lower pane, listening to the street hum rise from below. You left your word behind; I keep watch.