In the dead of winter, an icy wind blew through a small, quiet village. The snow made every tiny house look indistinguishable, identical, blanketed in white.

At the edge of a long road, stood yet another snowcapped brick house. Each of its small windows were dark, except for one. Through the frosted glass and blowing crystal snow beyond it, one could make out a blank face on the other side of the windowpane. It was the face of an innocent child, the round shape and smooth skin that had yet the chance to be weathered down by the conditions of the vast world. He knew very little of the world beyond the tiny frosted window; it was simply his looking glass.

Day had faded before his watchful eyes, and his face was illuminated by the last traces of twilight before the sun, its weak rays filtered by a thick sheet of dark cloud, plunged over the snowcapped horizon. He was searching for something in the snow, among the hills, as he remained perched silent and still. Though growing fidgety and impatient, like most young children, his visage would disappear from the window from time to time, wandering the house, playing with toys, yet always returning to the windowpane dutifully. He tried to count the hours in his soft mind and on his stubby pale fingers, searching the night with his bleak stare of innocence.

The boys face shone expectantly, pressing himself even closer to the frostbitten glass. Then, there was a figure trudging through the thick snow. It was a young man with long brown hair, waving like a blanket in the wind, his thick beard full of crystalline snowflakes. He marched through the snow like a soldier, probably on his way home to see his family, trying to make it in time for supper despite the weather. Feeling odd warmth radiate from the lone man all the way through his barrier of ice and glass, touching him on the other side with its glow, the little boy quivered. He wasn't sure of the sensation he was experiencing, it was unrecognized to his young soul.

As the young man trudged past the old house, his gaze happened to fell upon the small second-story window. He had never taken a second to observe the house before, never catching his attention, yet now it seemed to sing to him like a sorrowful siren.

The man stopped mid-step and attempted to blink away the cold flakes that clung to his long lashes, preventing him from holding a steady gaze. He thought he saw a shadow flicker briefly beyond the window, yet behind the glass there was no illumination to cast one. As he squinted, feeling an undeniable presence, he was then able to make out the shape behind the windowpane more distinctly. It was the pale face of a little boy, looking straight down at him curiously. He could make out a nose, a mouth, a pair of eyes distorted by the blizzard building between them. A harsh wind whipped his long hair into his face; it stung his eyes and cheeks. He pulled down his hat and brushed his hair back over his broad shoulder, but as he gazed back to the window a moment later it was empty. Dark without a shadow, no longer a lingering face intently watching him, yet he could almost feel the boy moving about just beyond the glass.

How odd I'm feeling tonight, I should be hurrying home to my wife and child'� He thought. Yet, he lingered for a few more moments.

He wondered what the young boy was doing, staring so bleakly out at the darkness and the building snowstorm. Surely, his vision would be so impaired it would be hard to see anything through the frosted window at all'� and though he couldn't make out his features, he felt that the young eyes were intensely watching.

What was he searching for, this little child? Maybe he's waiting for someone, perhaps his mother or father or brother or friend'�yet he looked incredibly alone, as if he was a world away from me and not simply behind a round glass window, He thought to himself, chilled to the bone.

And where did he run off too? His little face is gone, yet I still feel watched, as if he's somewhere just beyond my vision'� beyond the windowpane'� why do I have this impulse? This impulse that is keeping me standing frigid in this unbearable cold, while my family waits for me at home. Maybe this boy has something important to say, perhaps he wishes to come outside and tilt his head back and taste the snowflakes. It feels as if he's staring directly at me, but his sad face is gone, like a dream'�

A clump of snow fell from the thin, spider-like tree branch above his head, plunging the young man back into reality. He wiped the slush from his face and shoulders with trembling, white fingers. With one last gaze at the window, he tried to banish the thoughts from his head, as the wind whistled in his ears and he hurried a few houses down to his awaiting family.

With the man gone, the little boy felt cold and alone once more. Sitting on the floor just under the window, stacking colored building blocks, his baby teeth chattered. He didn't need to return his gaze to the window to know that the stranger had continued on his way, he suddenly felt a certain electricity in the air evaporate, a warmth slip away silently. He rose, with grace and thin limbs, and his eyes widened into two glowing moons. Out the window in front of him, a tall man with a long trench coat pulled a short boy with a moth-eaten woolen jacket up the walk, to the front door. He smiled watching them, his little face shining. It was what he had been waiting for! His father and older brother, returning home at last, after a long day of work and school.

He felt a gust of cold wind blow through the creaky house as the door was quickly opened and shut, his father and brother entering. The boy paced the tiny room he shared with his brother, wanting to go see them downstairs, slide down the banister into his fathers arms, but he stayed put. He knew his father wasn't in the best of moods when he returned home from a tedious day of work. As he sat on the floor under the dark sky beyond the windowpane, he winded his red and gold music box, which played his favorite lullaby. He listened to the soft, tinkling tune, unable to hear his own breath or heartbeat.

Over the lullaby, there were the sounds of loud voices and feet scurrying and stomping up the stairs. The door to the room burst open, and his brother scurried timidly inside, followed by his father, his face red and steel cold. The lullaby faded into a whisper in the background. His brother whimpered, his father snarled.

'How many times have I told you Thomas, to put away your god damn toys!'� His father bellowed, kicking a colored block that lay astray on the floor into the wall.
Thomas was shaking, stammering, and all the little boy could do was watch his older brother from his corner on the floor in silence.

'Father'� I swear, I put them away this morning! They were in the toy box, I swear it! I have no idea how they got'�'�

He watched his father as he lifted his large palm and backhanded his older brother, knocking him backwards. Thomas, crumpled on the floor, sobbed. The little boy tried to close his large eyes, but somehow he couldn't. His vision would not leave him, his eyelids had disintegrated. Instead, he focused his sight on the block that his father had kicked. Even though he hadn't meant to, he had gotten his older brother in trouble, again'� he felt horrible. He couldn't take the weak, sad sound of his brother's sobs and sniffles. He grabbed the music box, and wound it as fast as he could, the lullaby drowning his brothers sobs into soft, muffled moans. He brought his tiny hands over his ever-seeing eyes.

The room was occupied by two people only, and as the weeping children's lullaby saturated the air, there was a haunting loneliness captured in the little boy's covered eyes. His brother Thomas's skin was covering a secret scar, the scar of pain and anger and wounds above and below the surface. Out in the world he hid it, in his own nightmares he ran from it. But the little boy was different, his scars were covering a secret skin'� trapped within his own scars, he could not be delivered, he could not rest. He could not close his eyes.

Then, there was no one in the room. The bedroom door shut, two bodies moving down the stairs, one pulling and one being dragged. They were leaving the house, leaving him again, looking straight through him once more. He ran to the window in time to see his father and brother exit into the blizzard, his brother looking to the ground, his father walking with his head held high. He was unsure of where they were going.

He didn't want to be alone again. He tried to bang on the glass, but there was no sound. He waved his hands goodbye, but there was no response or action returned. For a brief moment, Thomas glanced at the window, but his father yanked on his arm and he saw nothing.

And the boys spirit lingered by the windowpane once more, trapped, destined to relive something even more terrible than his own death over and over'� watching his brother suffer the same fate. But his young spirit couldn't understand all of this, his mind was too soft, to innocent. He sat by the windowpane, his looking glass, awaiting their return, waiting for the loneliness to cease.


A few houses down, the young man was clearing the plates off the dinner table. His young daughter has already run off to play.

'John, what's wrong with you? Are you alright, sweetheart? Ever since you got home, you've had the oddest look on your face'� Are you seeing things again?'� His wife said, slipping her arms around his back as he placed a stack of plates into the sink. He turned and brushed some blonde hair from her face.

'I don't know'�'� He began. 'On the way home, something odd happened. I can't explain it, it was nothing really, but I cannot get it out of my head'� somehow, I feel one face I saw is tied to a certain sequence of events.'� He had only sorted this theory out for himself a second ago.

'I see,'� She replied, 'Well, as long as you're okay'�'�

She began washing the dishes and he walked to the living room and sat down in his cushioned chair, facing the large window. The blinds were drawn, but he bent to peak out through them. At that very moment, a young boy in a pitiful woolen jacket and his sharply dressed father happened to be trudging through the snowy sidewalk past the glass. The father glanced up, his eyes cold as steel. He saw John peaking, recognizing one of his neighbors. He offered a smile, though his lips and moustache curled upwards making it look more like a snarl.

John's eyes fluttered closed. He hated this man, this neighbor that he rarely saw and barely knew. He wanted to run outside into the cold and ring his neck and destroy the smirk on his face. He had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself, to keep from barging through the front door and onto the sidewalk.

What is wrong here? There is a deep prejudice in me, for this man, and it escapes all reason'�

Then he thought of the image of the little boy in the windowpane that had been haunting him all evening, and the face of the man who had just passed'� and suddenly, behind his eyelids, played a broken roll of film, flashes of images. A vision.

It's the boy behind the window, his eyes are glowing not like a pale moon, but with life. They're wide, fearful, darting back and forth, but they're alive. And the face the man, his moustache, his sneer! They share some of the same facial features, the boy and the father. John's body was rigid with pain, watching these images, this waking dream behind his eyelids. There's an ear-splitting crack, and, what's this!? The boys head just collided with the window sill as his father lets go of his frail wrists and lets him fall to the hard wood floor. He's not withering in pain; he's lying flat on the floor, his body lifeless. His body is surely empty, because stepping out of it, there's a new boy'� the young boy from the frosted window glass'� The ghost boy. In the corner there's an abandoned red and gold music box, part of his world'�

Each image projected unto the last and he lost himself within the hellish nightmare of their utter reality, but the light brush of a hand on his knee shook him back to lucidity. His eyes flung open, and there stood his daughter, with her big green eyes and wispy brown hair. She stared at him intently and lifted her arms, wanting to be held. John smiled, despite what his minds eye had just witnessed, and plucked her up and placed her on his lap. She giggled, a beautiful melody.

After a few minutes of bouncing her on his knee, he hugged her tiny, vulnerable body. He placed a hand on her head and felt her soft hair and soft skull. The sickening crack he had heard within his head seconds ago replayed itself. He felt shaken.

'I love you, Melinda. You're a good girl, and I love you.'�

'Thank you daddy,'� She replied. So innocent, so fragile.

'No one will ever hurt you, ever.'�

She stared at him for a few moments. Then she smiled once more.

'I know.'�

My god'�John thought. Today I witnessed a killer walk right by my front window, within feet of my little girl, we've walked by his house so many times, a house filled with utter torment, where he killed his youngest son. And that poor other boy he was just walking with, what has he had to endure'�

But then, another thought, even more unthinkable to him.

Through those pulsating pale moonlit eyes, I had a silent conversation with a ghost child, in another world, beyond his windowpane he cried out to me'�

He was only comforted by the warmth of his young daughters' body, living and breathing, under his gentle yet trembling hands.

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