She was the Girl who Waited. And slowly, waiting, she became the Woman who Waited and then the Mother who Waited, the Grandmother.
She'd never loved her husband as much as she should have. And sometimes she hated herself for it. But most of the time she was pleased. She'd never admit it. But those feelings of settling for second best reminded her every single day of her marriage so that she wouldn't, couldn't, forget.
Now that her husband was gone it would be so easy to forget. And if she forgot her stories would stop. She'd move house, move on.
She'd close the window.
The window hadn't been closed in seventy years.
Just in case.
She'd never moved out.
Just in case.
She'd never stopped telling stories.
And she never would.
The window would still open until she was gone.
oOo
They said she'd caught a chill. They had blamed the open window. When she was younger she would have gone feral at the idea. Now she was just empty and sad.
She'd thought the waiting would kill her.
And now it would.
But she still wouldn't let them close the window.
Never.
She'd promised.
She could feel the chill right done to her bones, unearthing buried memories of pirates and crocodiles and mermaids and cold, black water, like ice and the faint whispering echo's. And while there was breath in her body the window would still open.
She was still waiting.
The clock struck midnight.
She closed her eyes.
oOo
Peter dropped softly to the floor, catching his foot on the window frame.
It slammed shut.