The Temperature Outside the Window

The moment she opened the curtains of the boarding house, the view outside came to her at an unfamiliar temperature. The streetlamp light, not yet asleep, lingered on the wet asphalt, and when she breathed out, the glass fogged white. The stillness of the street was clear in a way yesterday's noise had not been. Here, neither the room where he had stayed nor the road she had traveled, morning quietly begins with a different face. When she laid a hand on the window frame, the cold stayed just as it was on her fingertips. It seems the present can't linger long where things have passed. Then will those lights remain here today too, waiting for tomorrow's morning?