The Window by Maria Fokas  “This is where I was born; in this very room”, he said, as he packed his things. I had lost count of how many times he had told me. She sat waiting, confined to her sofa bed. He put the last piece of clothing in his rucksack, a neatly folded shirt by her tiny brittle hands, hours before. He took his coat from the chair and put it on. In a fragile voice, she whispered, “When will I see you again?” “I haven’t even left yet, and you want to know when I’m coming back?”, he … Continue reading The Window