Twelve
I counted eleven windows on the Harpers’ house for six years. I know this because I am the sort of person who counts things, and because from my kitchen sink there is nothing else to look at.
On Tuesday there were twelve.
The new one sat between the bathroom and the chimney, in a stretch of brick where no room could possibly be. It had the same flaking white frame as the others. It had the same net curtain. It had, I realised while the tap ran cold over my hands, the same small chip in the top left pane that the bathroom window has had since their son threw a stone at it in 2019.
I waved at it. I do not know why I waved at it.
Somebody waved back.