Few things made Luciana happier than watching the world go by from her window. There, she could look down at the pavement and imagine her tiny feet upon gravel. She could watch the blue skies above turn dark as the hours passed.
On lucky days, she could even catch a glimpse of birds weaving through the fluff of clouds. More often, she peered into the her neighbour’s home, although her father forbade her to. Still, she kept watch on the house, claiming interest in the night sky.
No one knew much about the old woman who lived there. Stories have it that she never left her home, and had lived on the street longer than anyone else did. A young nurse came up to visit her three times a day – at eight in the morning, twelve in the noon, and seven in the evening.
In the hours between, the old woman had only the company of her grandson. The boy – no more than six – would sit in the old rattan chair next to her bed. Every night, she would sing him to sleep.
Luciana never knew the words to the lullaby. But she did always hear the faint hum of the mournful tune, consonant with the grim sorrow that she saw on the woman’s face. She could never forget it, she thought.