When we moved into that old house I didn’t expect anything extraordinary. My mom kept saying fresh start this and that, but it was just cracks in the walls and stairs that screamed if you put a foot on them. The roof looked like it might just cave in any second.
The only part I liked was my room. It had this huge window that looked straight across the street at another old house. That house looked worse than ours. Thick wooden window frames and lace curtains like someone’s grandma never came back to take them down.
I was unpacking some books on the second night when I noticed someone in the window. It was a girl holding a lantern. She saw me staring and I nearly waved but she held up a piece of paper to her window.
HELLO. WHO ARE YOU?
My heart jumped. I didn’t even think. I just grabbed my notebook and marker and scribbled fast.
I’M JAMES. JUST MOVED IN.
She smiled at that, like full teeth smile, like I’d done something right. She scribbled back real quick and pressed it up.
MY NAME IS ELLEN. I’VE LIVED HERE ALL MY LIFE.
And then it became a thing. Every night, I’d sit in my window, and she’d be in hers, and we’d pass notes like we were kids stuck in class. I told her about mom and the divorce, and how she dragged me here like I had a choice.
She told me about her dad, running a general store. She wasn't shy one bit. She was the one asking me questions all the time.
One night, I pointed at her lantern and wrote. "Power outage?"
She looked confused, tilted her head, then held up her note. "What’s a power outage?"
I laughed. Thought she was messing with me. But she stayed serious.
The next night, I held my phone up to the glass, screen on. She jumped back like I’d scared her and then scribbled something so fast it was messy.
"What's that thing?"
That’s when I asked her to write the date. She held her paper up.
April. 1920.
1920?
I didn't know what to say. I simply stared. My stomach felt heavy. I couldn’t explain it but I didn’t stop writing to her. If anything, I wanted to talk to her more. She asked about planes and movies and I asked about horses and wagons and she told me there used to be a carnival ground where my school is now.
A few nights later she wrote, "you must think I’m strange."
I wrote back fast. "You're not strange. You're a time traveler."
She smiled at that. I don’t know why, but it stayed in my head for hours.
Then came the storm. Rain so loud I couldn’t even hear myself. Lightning lit up her window and she looked pale, scared. She pressed a note up with shaking hands.
They say a flood is coming. Father wants us to leave. He says this house won’t last.
I slammed my notebook to the glass so hard I almost tore it. Do you make it out? Do you survive?
She looked down, and wrote, "I don’t know. I’ve never been beyond this street."
I wanted to run out, cross the road, kick the door in, but how was I supposed to explain it to anyone. So I did something else. Something desperate.
I tore a page out and wrote, "Ellen, if you leave go west two miles. There’s a ridge, high ground. Stay there until the waters fall."
She copied every word. Then she put her hand to the glass. I put mine up too, like we were touching. A hundred years and a street in between us.
Her lantern flickered out. Her window went black.
Next morning I ran across the street. The steps were dusty, door nailed shut, like nobody had touched it in forever. A neighbor saw me staring and said That house? Nobody’s lived there since the big flood of 1920.
I didn’t argue. All I had was my notebook covered in her handwriting.
Weeks passed. I kept looking at her window but it stayed empty. Until one night, just before the sun went down, I saw a paper pressed to her glass. The edges were yellow, almost falling apart.
I ran closer, heart racing. The words were faint but I could read them.
I made it. I found the ridge. I lived. Thank you, James.
My hands shook, and I whispered to the empty street, "you’re welcome."