But the child doesn’t know yet. And the adult can’t forget.

The child sits by the window, waiting.

The child doesn’t know yet. Doesn’t know that the world is a knife, that love is a wound, that time is a thief. The child sits by the window, watching the rain, and dreams of tomorrow.

"When I grow up," the child says, "I’ll be happy. I’ll be free. I’ll be loved."

The child doesn’t see the cracks in the walls. Doesn’t hear the whispers in the dark. Doesn’t feel the weight of what’s coming.

The child is hope. The child is light. The child is a flame that hasn’t been snuffed out yet.

The adult sits by the same window, staring at the same rain.

The adult knows. Knows that the world is a knife, that love is a wound, that time is a thief. The adult sits by the window, watching the rain, and remembers yesterday.

"When I was a child," the adult says, "I thought I’d be happy. I thought I’d be free. I thought I’d be loved."

The adult sees the cracks in the walls. Hears the whispers in the dark. Feels the weight of what’s already happened.

The adult is pain. The adult is shadow. The adult is a flame that’s been burned down to ash.

The child dreams of the future.

"I’ll have a big house," the child says. "I’ll have a family. I’ll have a dog. I’ll be happy."

The child doesn’t know that the big house will feel empty. That the family will leave. That the dog will die. That happiness is a moving target, always just out of reach.

The child doesn’t know yet. And maybe that’s a gift.

The adult remembers the past.

"I had a big house," the adult says. "I had a family. I had a dog. I was happy."

The adult knows that the big house felt empty. That the family left. That the dog died. That happiness is a memory, fading a little more every day.

The adult knows too much. And maybe that’s the curse.

The child believes in love.

"When I grow up," the child says, "I’ll find someone who loves me. Someone who stays."

The child doesn’t know that love is a wound. That staying is a lie. That the person who loves you today might leave you tomorrow.

The child believes. And maybe that’s beautiful.

The adult knows better.

"When I was a child," the adult says, "I thought I’d find someone who loved me. Someone who stayed."

The adult knows that love is a wound. That staying is a lie. That the person who loved you yesterday left you today.

The adult knows. And maybe that’s tragic.

The child and the adult sit by the same window, watching the same rain.

The child dreams of tomorrow. The adult remembers yesterday.

The child is hope. The adult is pain.

The child is light. The adult is shadow.

The child is a flame. The adult is ash.

And maybe, just maybe, they’re both right.

Maybe the world is a knife, but it’s also a garden.

Maybe love is a wound, but it’s also a balm.

Maybe time is a thief, but it’s also a gift.

But the child doesn’t know yet.

And the adult can’t forget.

So they sit there, together and apart, watching the rain fall.

The child reaches for the future.

The adult clings to the past.

And somewhere, in the space between them, the flame flickers—not quite gone, not quite alive.

Maybe that’s all we are: a child and an adult, sitting by the window, waiting for the rain to stop.