By: Nikila Rajan

That’s exactly what was written on her kitchen window. In a font you could never describe. She tried to wipe it off, but nothing happened. It must be written on the outside. she thought. But how could anyone write on the outside of her window? After all, her apartment was on the sixteenth floor with no balconies or window ledges.

A few months later, the second note came. “I love your shoes,” in the same rounded handwriting as before. She put her cheek on the window to feel if there were any suction marks or if anyone had climbed up. NONE.

The third note appeared the following winter. The familiar words, “I love your shoes” almost came out of focus since the sky was the same gray as the ice.

The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh notes came on a hot April afternoon in the span of a couple minutes, in a consistent matter. She started getting worried about whether these notes would continue to stay with her for the rest of her life – That maybe a god, ghost, or demon would go on, until the day she died, liking her shoes.