The Woman by the Window

The Woman by the Window

There’s a woman who sits by the window every Saturday morning. Always the same seat—far corner, high stool, facing the glass where the city stretches out in orderly rooftops and gentle patterns. At first glance, she looks alone. Some might say lonely. But if you watch long enough, you’ll sense something different.

Her name is Aina. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe she’s all of us.

For a long time, that café seat was her quiet retreat. She’d come with the weight of things unspoken—losses she hadn’t yet named, a version of herself she wasn’t ready to leave behind. She didn’t come for the coffee. She came for the stillness. For the comfort of a familiar view and the anonymity of a space that asked nothing of her.

I saw her once, months ago, with her head in her hands, shoulders curled inward like she was trying to disappear into the dark roast aroma and soft jazz playing in the background. That day, she didn’t look out the window. She looked inward.

But this morning—something’s changed.

She rests her head on her arms again, but this time, there’s a softness to her. She’s not hiding. She’s thinking. Watching. Letting the view speak to her. The rooftops outside, once just lines and symmetry, now seem like pathways—sloping gently upward toward something unnamed but waiting. Her gaze follows them, not as someone lost, but as someone beginning to find her way back.

On the floor below her stool, the polished concrete reflects the faintest glimmer of light and shape—a shadow of who she used to be, and maybe a hint of who she’s becoming.

In her bag is a notebook. She’s been writing again. Not about endings, but about next steps: recipes she wants to try, places she might visit alone, a letter she’s been meaning to write. Small things. Gentle signs of growth.

The woman by the window isn’t healing all at once. But she’s healing. Quietly, steadily. With each sip of her coffee. With each Saturday she shows up.

And maybe that’s hope—not a burst of sunlight, but the slow, sure way morning arrives after a long night.