BEHIND OPEN WINDOW

Behind the Open Window

The night was calm, just like most nights in Aluna's quiet neighborhood. She sat by her bedroom window, the place she always went when she needed to think, breathe, or just stare at nothing. The window was half-open, letting the cool breeze slip in and brush against her face. It felt nice—fresh, clean, and a little cold.

Outside, the sky was full of faint stars. Not the dramatic kind you see in movies—just soft little dots that made the night look gentle. Her moon-shaped lamp glowed beside her bed, giving the whole room a warm yellow color.

On her desk sat a notebook, a pen, and a cup of jasmine tea that was definitely getting cold by now. Usually, this was her writing hour. She would pour out her thoughts, poems, stories, or random emotional things she'd probably laugh at weeks later.

But tonight, she didn't write anything.
She just stared.

Her eyes landed on the small garden outside. The grass was still wet from the afternoon rain, and the air smelled like damp earth. She liked that smell—it reminded her of calm mornings.

"Why does tonight feel... weird?" she whispered to herself.

Her gaze shifted to the old garden chair. It was the one her mom used to put clothes on when she was drying laundry. But now, at this hour, it looked empty.

At least, it *should* have looked empty.

For a moment, she thought she saw someone sitting there.

She squinted, leaning closer to the window. The streetlamp flickered, and the "figure" vanished instantly.

"Okay... yeah, I'm definitely tired," she muttered, laughing softly at her own imagination.

To shake off the strange feeling, she grabbed her notebook and wrote the first sentence that came to mind:

> "Sometimes the things we look for are just illusions made by loneliness."

She stared at the sentence.
It sounded dramatic.
Too dramatic for someone who was simply sleepy.

Before she could rewrite it, a sudden noise outside startled her.

*kring... kring... kring!*

A bicycle bell. Loud and clear.

She stood up, looked out the window again, and blinked in confusion. A guy in a black jacket had stopped his bicycle right in front of her house. There was a food box attached to the back of the bike.

*Huh? Food delivery? At this hour?*

The guy looked up at her window.

"Delivery for... Aluna?" he called out.

Her stomach dropped.
She definitely didn't order food.

But manners were manners, so she hurried downstairs and opened the door.

The smell hit her instantly—fried rice. Warm, strong, delicious fried rice.

"Sorry," she said politely, "I didn't order anything."

The courier checked his phone and looked at her again. "The address is correct. Maybe a friend sent it? The name here is..."
He paused to read again.
"...Arga."

Aluna froze.

That name.
That familiar, warm, old name.

Arga.
Her childhood best friend.
The boy she laughed with, fought with, teased endlessly.
The boy she hadn't talked to properly in years.

"Are you sure?" she asked again, her voice quieter.

"Very sure," the courier said with a grin. "Also, he told me to say this: 'Stop writing for a moment and eat before you turn into a ghost.'"