THE BICYCLE THAT REMEMBERED RACES

I am just a rectangle of glass, but I hold a thousand goodbyes. They call me a window, a view to the world outside, but I am also a quiet witness to a town's slow emptying. My frame carries the lingering scent of dust and hope, and my glass reflects the fading light of a community left behind. I am the window that saw friends leave for the city.

I remember my first story. A young man, a backpack slung over his shoulder, had a face filled with fear and excitement. His mother, pride and sorrow on her face, hugged him one last time on the pavement below. He looked up at me, gave a silent wave, and then he was gone, a small figure swallowed by the dusty road. My glass captured the last glimpse of his hopeful smile, a ghost in my reflection. The curtains, drawn back by a mother's hand, stood as a quiet testament to a heart left behind.

Years passed, and the goodbyes continued. A young woman, her face showing quiet determination, boarded a bus with her ticket tightly held. Her friends stood below, their laughter a bit forced, their farewells a little more final. The streetlights, just coming on, cast long, lonely shadows that seemed to pull her away. I saw the silent longing in their eyes, the unspoken fear that this goodbye signified an end.

The stories are not always about people. Sometimes, a family would leave quietly, their belongings packed into a small truck. They wouldn’t look up, they wouldn’t wave. Their departure was a whisper, a silent erasure from a town that was already forgetting. My glass, in those moments, became a blank slate, reflecting nothing but the empty street below.

Now, my view is quiet. The street is still, the dust has settled. The laughter and goodbyes have been replaced by the soft hum of a town going to sleep. I am just a window, but I carry a lifetime of longing. My glass is a canvas of a thousand reflections, each one a silent story of a friend who left for the city, a memory of a life that moved on, and a hope that still lingers in the fading light.