At the beginning of the morning, the light always comes before a person's eyelids and quietly climbs up that window. The window is silent, but it frames itself as a frame, enclosing the first ray of sunlight in the chamber. At first, it was a very faint mark, like a water stain on rice paper, but then the light became stronger, like honey colored juice, slowly flowing down the window sill, wetting the window sill, and quietly spreading into the room, silently coating each piece of furniture with warm silver foil.

This window is a silent yet diligent postman, faithfully delivering messages from beyond. In the spring morning, it brings birds chirping and mist; In the summer afternoon, it sifts through the dense shade and the sound of cicadas; At autumn dusk, it frames the flowing clouds and returning geese; On winter nights, it condenses with ice flowers, delicately carving the clear radiance of the cold star onto the glass. The rainwater meandered and slid down, turning the window into a flowing ink painting, faintly imprinting the wet world outside onto the tranquility inside. The person inside the window gazed out, and their gaze met silently with the shadows of trees outside, the clothes of pedestrians, and even a accidentally falling leaf on the transparent barrier.

The window is also a collection box for time. The morning glow and evening shadow spread and changed on its flat body, leaving deep or shallow kiss marks. Over time, the wood grain of the window frame has become increasingly warm, and the corners of the glass have also accumulated imperceptible dust particles - gold shavings that have fallen over time. Between the opening and closing of the window, not only does the fresh breeze enter, but also the subtle exhalation of the fleeting years themselves. When dusk falls and the lights start to light up, the window gathers the gifts of daylight and instead reflects the lights and figures inside. At this moment, it becomes a hazy mirror, reflecting the temperature of human fireworks.

The window never speaks, only connecting the fireworks within an inch with the boundless sky through its transparent or hazy body. In the depths of people's hearts, there is also an invisible window quietly open, reflecting the passing guests, absorbing the wind and clouds, and silently enduring the gentle carving of time and the harsh scratches of wind and frost. That frame is more than just scenery? It is more about life itself, the clarity that settles inward and the vastness that extends outward.