Write a story about a magic window — or a window like no other.

It was a window of illusion, of fantasy, of wonder: the single small window in my room, the attic window always closed, which I was just the right height, if I drew myself up, to peer through at the world stretching far into the horizon. Only, it did not show me the world outside the house; a fantastical world was what greeted my eyes.

An absolutely mad and nonsensical beauty: that was what anyone of right mind could call it. It was bright and colourful, painted like a rainbow that twisted and scattered itself gently across the many lands. It had the scent of many flowers blooming, and the smell of raindrops on the grass, joined together on a summer wind and carried right to me. It rang of joyful music, a changing and harmonious tune that piped up with a promise of carefree days. And the people: they were always laughing, smiling, playing new games that would never end in a world that did not punish them for it. It was a perfect world that I watched from a single window, perhaps to them just a hole in the sky which they paid no mind to.

But when the time for play and happiness had passed, I still had to step away from that window, and back to the real world that tired me so. Climbing down the well-worn stairs—be careful of the ones that would let out a creak—to enter the living room where old wood and peeling papers mixed to a great mass of browns. And there would be dinner—after the chores, so off to get the broom, the mop, and work and toil till the sky turned as red as my blood-flushed skin. Through all this, I would glance outside, the briefest of glances that never got caught, hoping to see the world I saw from my window, just a bit of comfort to my weary heart and body. But in vain: outside was a normal world, a grey world, each house as old and fading as the one I was in, like a parade of pale shadows that would never be seen, never be heard, and finally swept away like the dust I cleaned in the face of the entire planet. Then dinner time: a simple meal carried to an empty table, save for a vase of moldy flowers drowning in old water, food to be wolfed down in minutes. And now back up those well-worn steps to the attic, to the window that I would watch.

I knelt before the window, my legs betraying me at the last moment. Then I grabbed the sill, pulled myself back up to the glass panes of the window so I could continue my happiness. Everything returned in an instant: the enticing scent, the entrancing music, and all the riotous colours. It was night outside, but as with everything else, it didn't seem to matter here; in fact, the world was even clearer, brighter, casting away the shadows gnawing at my feet. I leaned forward, pushing my face up against the glass that separated me from my world. It was a land of temptation and desires; I needed it, I wanted it.

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BAM! A large sound shook me. I whirled around—instantly, the world of the window faded away: sound died down, scent dissipating, colours and light consumed by shadows. It was just me, huddled up against a wall, below a window, in a room where shadows crept without candlelight to ward off, where everything was seen as greys and darker greys, blacks and darker blacks. All was silent: I didn't know where the sound came from, maybe somewhere downstairs, perhaps not even in this house at all. But I was certain of one thing.

I turned back around—the world I loved returned to me—and reached upwards to that window. Fiddling with the cold metal mechanism, darkness hissing at me from the corners of my room, I was almost dissuaded just then. But my will was far stronger, and I threw open the latch, a satisfying 'clack' rewarding me for my efforts. Then with both hands, I pushed open the window, and the world that I perceived only grew much stronger. The light brighter than ever, but easy on the eyes, an unearthly radiance shining from somewhere higher above to travel deep into the ground far below. The smell surrounded me, and I noticed other things mixed in now: the fragrance of freshly-baked bread, the sweetness of fruity perfume, and many other unimaginable things yet to be explored. The music rang in my ears, a harmony of songs, instruments and voices, like the song of a siren I had only once imagined. And the people now noticed me: they were waving, beckoning, cheering, offering up gifts and toys and fun. This perfect world lay just before my eyes, easily in reach, and could be taken in just a moment's choice. And I had already chosen. Raising my legs to the window, I positioned myself gently, hanging them over the edge to dangle in the air—in the window unattached to any wall but the sky of this world. And inside me I knew, somehow, that my fall would not be fatal, that surely the magic of this world would catch me and save me from the other world outside. The rules of reality didn't apply here; it was the simple commonsense that I had learned to accept. There was nothing left holding me back. So I went.

It was the window of illusion, of fantasy, of wonder. Stepping out invited a sudden rush of air, the freeing flight of the largest clouds, as I descended deep into this realm of pure imagination. Behind me, above me, I could only vaguely see the window, floating in the sky, that went back to all that was once the reality of my life. But it was too late to return from a fall: I had already made my bed, and now it was time to sleep.