There’s always a girl in the window, of that towering, foreboding house which everyone in this town avoids. But it’s on my way to school; I walk past it each and every day.

Everyone knows who lives there. It’s Monsieur Pontavon, the French businessman who owns half of the restaurants in Paris. Only God knows how he ended up here, but we always assumed he dwelt there alone, devoid of companionship. Until recently.

I’m unsure if anyone else has noticed her, but she’s always there. She looks almost ethereal, with a slim figure, clear amber coloured eyes and long straggled hair somewhere between blonde and brown. She is sometimes buried into a book, other times scribbling urgently into a dog eared notebook or sketching with a stub of a pencil. Occasionally she just gazes out of the window in deep thought, head leaning against the glass, which becomes frosted with her breath.

She’s doing that today, I realise, simply taking a wander through her mind. I wonder what she sees as I shuffle along the cobbled road, trying not to feel threatened by the imposing turrets of Pontavons mansion, so different from the other mere cottages of this town. I look up at her, catching my breath in the chilly morning air. And then something unprecedented happens.

She sees me.

For the first time, she notices that she isn’t the only one in this world. A curious tentative smile breaks across her features like the sun mounting the horizon. I am speechless.

For the first time, I wonder if she’s only a figment if my imagination