The Window with Star Curtains

Alma’s bedroom had a window with a balcony.

By day it was the loveliest part of the house, because from there she could see the sea, the pale roofs, and a little piece of street where the fruit seller passed. At night, however, that same window became too large.

The glass reflected shadows. The light curtains moved even when Alma thought there was no wind. Now and then a scooter passed far away and its light slipped across the ceiling.

“I don’t like the window at night,” Alma told her grandmother.

Grandmother did not laugh. She took out her sewing box, the one with buttons, thread, needles, and a silver thimble.

“Then we shall make the window a night dress.”

“For the window?”

“Of course. Even windows need to learn how to enter sleep.”

That evening Grandmother sewed tiny glowing stitches onto the curtains. They were not beads. They were very thin threads that shone just a little, as if they had borrowed a bit of light from the Moon.

“They are threads of star,” she said.

Alma touched one stitch. It was smooth and warm.

When the light was switched off, the curtains no longer seemed like shadows moving in the room. They looked like a nearby sky, a sky that was on the side of the bedroom.

Alma got under the blanket.

A gust of wind moved the curtain. She held her breath.

The star threads lit up softly. They did not brighten the whole room. They only drew the edge of the window, like a gentle frame.

“See?” whispered Grandmother. “The window is not a hole in the dark. It is a boundary. Inside, there is you. Outside, there is the night.”

Alma looked more carefully. The balcony was in its place. The curtain was in its place. The bed was in its place. She too was in her place.

“And if the night wants to come in?”

Grandmother smiled. “Only a little piece comes in: fresh air, the scent of the sea, one star. The rest stays outside.”

From that evening, Alma made a small ritual. She closed the window to the right point, left a small space for air, pulled the star curtains, and checked that her glass of water was near.

Then she said, “Inside, home. Outside, night. In between, stars.”

The curtains still moved, but they no longer frightened her. They were light guardians.

And when Alma fell asleep, the star threads remained barely lit, not to keep her awake, but to remind her that even darkness can be crossed by soft boundaries.