There are old houses where windows were painted over so many times that they no longer looked like windows.
Layer after layer.
Year after year.
Until the frame disappeared beneath the color.
Nobody questioned it anymore.
People simply learned to live in dim rooms.
The strange part wasn't the darkness.
It was how ordinary it had become.
Then one day, someone noticed a thin line beneath the paint.
A forgotten edge.
A quiet reminder that this wall had never been a wall.
It had always been a window.
The first scrape didn't fill the room with sunlight.
It only proved the light had been there all along.
Every layer that followed made the room a little brighter.
The sun hadn't changed.
What had been hiding it was finally coming off, one scrape at a time.
Some parts of us are like that.
We don't always lose the light.
Sometimes we slowly cover every place where it could have entered.
One habit.
One excuse.
One compromise at a time.
Until the room feels naturally dark.
You already know which window it is.
The light was never gone.
It was waiting on the other side of a window we had forgotten existed.
If this reflection stayed with you,
I'd be grateful to have you with me for the next one.
