Through the dirt-encrusted glass of the window, I look down on people passing below my vantage point.
Years of neglect have seen the small panes of glass, which make the whole of the window, become dulled by black and green mould, dust, soot and unidentifiable debris combine, the glass now opaque.
All except one small pane, the one I look through. My spyhole. It has a circle of clarity, rubbed clean by an old rag I keep to hand for that purpose.
First Lines Contest 2018: Three Floors Up
The First Lines Contest 2018 is closed. Please submit your vote in the current year.