Counting Windows

From her bed, Zara could see the tall building across the road. It had many windows, and at night every window was a small yellow square.

"I am not sleepy," said Zara.

"Then count the windows," said her father. "Count the ones that are still awake."

Zara counted. There were twelve lit windows.

In one of them, a woman was ironing a school uniform for the morning. In another, a man was watering plants on a balcony. In another, the blue light of a television flickered on the ceiling.

As Zara watched, the woman folded the uniform and reached for the switch. The window went dark. Eleven.

The man with the plants put down his watering can. Ten.

Somewhere a baby had stopped crying. A lamp went off. Nine.

Zara pulled her blanket up to her chin. Each dark window meant that someone had gone to bed. She thought of them all, lying down, closing their eyes, in rooms she would never see.

Eight. A student shut his book. Seven. A grandmother finished her prayers.

The television went off. Six.

The building was growing quiet, floor by floor, like a tree where the birds settle one by one.

Five. Four.

Zara's eyes were closing between the numbers now. She opened them to check.

Three.

One window near the top stayed bright. Perhaps a nurse lived there, getting ready for a night shift. Perhaps a baker, who would get up before the sun. "Someone is always awake," Zara thought, "so that everyone else can sleep."

Two.

She did not see the next window go dark.

Across the road, in a building full of sleeping people, one more small square went out. It was hers.