The Window Woman. He was just a man and his name was Oliver Dallon. Oliver was not someone you remembered easy, he always wore a jacket, a tie and comfortable pants, a standard uniform that made him anonymous everywhere. He was just a man, inconspicuous, neat as pin and gentle. When he was young he wanted to be a writer, but his problem was he couldn't invent anything. He only could write long, boring reportings and news items. So he took a job as journalist. He wrote things about shares and economy. He was a good writer, but his work was not exciting or thrilling at all. He was just a man. Every day after his work Oliver walked home in Ex and then he passed a castle. It was a big, beautiful castle with many windows and decorations. The castle was build with many colors of stone and Oliver loved it. And every day after work, he stopped in front of it and looked at it. And then he saw her, a woman, staring out of the window on the third floor. She was sitting there, didn't move and didn't notice him. She looked at the sun and it seemed like she was frozen. From now on Oliver looked every day at the woman. Every day she sat up there, didn't move, didn't notice him or the other people. She was just staring. Year after year Oliver looked at her when he came back from his work and always she was up there. One day when he was standing there, in front of the castle, a rider stopped next to Oliver and got off his horse. "Where are you looking at?" the man asked. "That woman," Oliver said and pointed to the woman behind the window. "Every day when I come here she sits there, silent, frozen." "Perhaps she's dead, or a doll," the man said. "No, no," Oliver said. "I know she's alive. I've been looking at her for four years now, I know she isn't dead" "But why is she sitting there?" the rider asked. "I don't know," Oliver said, "But I wish I knew". "Well, go and ask her," the man laughed. "And if you know, come back to me. I want to know it, too" So Oliver, a little bit shy, knocked on the giant door. But nobody opened. "Nobody home," he shouted to the rider, who was still waiting for him. "Then go inside," the rider answered. Oliver tried the door and, truly, it opened. Oliver went inside. He stood in the high hall. "Anybody home?" he asked. Nobody answered. He decided to go up and find the woman, but when he was at the second floor an old lady with thin, gray hair stopped him. "What are you doing in Amatilla's castle, lad?" she asked him. "I... I'm an historian," Oliver stammered, "I'm interested in this castle's history... Can I speak to the lady of the castle?" "Yes, you can, " the woman said, "If you promise to knock the door next time. We don't like this kind of thief-visitors." "I'm not a thief!" Oliver protested, "But nobody answered the door!" "All the servants died," the woman said, "But that doesn't mean you can come in as you want. Well, go on, you can speak to the lady of the castle. She's at the third floor". Oliver went on, up the stairs to the third floor. And he found the room. He saw a woman, sitting in front of the window, staring at the sun. "Lady Amatilla?" Oliver asked. The woman didn't turn, but answered: "That's me, who are you?" "I'm Oliver Dallon, jou... historian. I'm interested in this castle's history. Can you tell me something about it?" "Turn me, Oliver, I want to see you." "T...turn you?" Oliver asked, surprised. But then he saw that the woman wasn't sitting in a chair or something but in a big box, that was closed around her waist, so he couldn't see her legs (if she had them). Oliver walked to her and turned the box. Then he took a chair and sat down opposite her. Then the woman, Amatilla, told him about the castle and it's history. But Oliver didn't listen. He only looked to the woman. She was about fourty years old and her thick, blond hair was tied back with a silk scarf. She had a beautiful face, with bright, blue eyes and a gentle smile. But something was wrong with her. It was the box she was sitting in. Like someone held her prison. "...and that's all. Is that what you wanted to hear?" "Yes, yes, thank you," Oliver hadn't heard her, but he got up. "If you like, my mother can show you the castle and all the paintings," Amatilla said, "You already met her, I think". "Yes, yes, that's fine, thank you, very nice," Oliver went to the door again, but before he could leave Amatilla said to him: "Can you please turn me back? I want to look to the sun". Oliver turned her back and fled from the room. On the ground floor he met the old woman, Amatilla's mother, again. "Back again, historian?" she asked, with a mocking smile. "Do you want to see the castle?" "I heard enough," Oliver answered, "But why is your daughter sitting in..." "Thank you for your visit", the woman said quickly, pushing Oliver to the giant front-door. "If you have any more questions, come back and we'll answer them. Good afternoon, lad!" And before Oliver could said anything, he stood outside again. He looked up, Amatilla was staring at the sun again. Also the rider was still there. "And?" he asked, "Was she dead?" Oliver told him the whole story. "Oh," the rider said, "Why haven't you asked her about the box?" But Oliver didn't answer, he walked away and only turned around once. "She was so beautiful," he said to the rider, "But something was wrong with her, completely wrong". And that were the last words Oliver Dallon ever said. He went home again, took a paper and began to write. He wrote hundreds of beautiful stories, all about women with thick hair, tied back with a silk scarf. He never wanted to be a journalist again, he resigned. All his time, day and night, he wrote, without saying a word. When someone visited him and asked him things, Oliver never answered. He told nothing, he said nothing, he answered no questions, he only wrote. And for the rest of his life he saw the image of the beautiful woman, captived in the big box, staring at the sun. He saw it, day and night, in his dreams and fantasies, while he was writing. She was always with him, like a never fading memory. At last Oliver Dallon, seventy-four years old, died, because he hadn't eaten for a month. He died while he was writing. The last words before his head and pencil fell down were: "She was so beautiful, but something was wrong with her, completely wrong. She hid a secret, a horrible secret, but I'm glad I never heard it. I'll always love her as she was, beautiful and lonely, chained in front of the window, with the sun catched in her thick, blond hair. Amatilla..." By Samara