She wondered with great ardour what the world held for her, looking through the East eye. Grand thoughts of towns, villages, people; anything grander than one house in the woods. It was difficult to imagine such a world existed through the three windows in her house. One in the kitchen facing South (or so her father told her) directly above the old, dirty sink. Another above a simliar sink in the water cooler that faced North (or so her mother told her). There were no handles on this sink and nothing but a screw for a knob remained. There was only a single-knob option in this home: cold. Not specifically labelled with a “C” as the sinks in the towns she heard about. She had no need for such labels, with no second knob to turn. No, nothing but a single, centered, black bar (or in the case of the water cooler, a screw) spewing only the most ice-tinged water you’ve ever felt. Water this cold makes one wonder how it remained liquid.

The third window in the house, facing East, resided in the only other room, called The Share. What others might call a bedroom, and what others might call a dining room, and still what others might call a family room, this room was known for its multifunctionailty. The window here was different than the other two. It displayed more than just surrounding woods. Well, it showed much of those too, but beyond that it showed a small field in the distance. Beyond the field lied more woods. Her father had named this Sholk field, after the name of his grandfather who had also worked in grain fields.

She had grown up looking out this window. Thirteen years of searching for any signs of life, and to this day, still unsuccessful. The only living thing she would ever see out this window would be her father chopping wood once every week, or harvesting grain twice a week. Not ever a bird flighting through the sky. Not even a squirrel running across one of the many tree branches.

She wouldn’t have known these few animals existed if it hadn’t been for her father bringing them home for the meal once every month or so. Besides those rare meals, supper was made from Sholk’s grain. Her mother worked tediously in the meager kitchen to prepare meager bread. It was clumpy and fell apart, but they had become accustomed to it over the years.

Her parents had built this house before she was born. They named it Bastille. It had been built as a safe house, far far away from the other places. It functioned as a unit: highly purposed, highly efficient, and highly structured, much like a single-celled organism. Nothing was included in its design but for necessity. No elements of luxury, only survival. Keep what is inside safe. Keep what it outside far away.

And far away is how the outside world seemed, looking North and South through the eyes of Bastille. But the East eye in The Share held a slightly different view. Sholk field in the distance showed hope. The grain held the promise of life, growing and dying to give it away freely. She knew this was the only window ever worth looking out.