The Window

There were three cracks, that morning, each reaching from a single point of impact like the stone that had somehow ended up embedded in the glass was specifically annoyed with the top left corner of the window. It wasn't unusual for bits of debris to land themselves in the glass -- outside was an old winding gravel path that people loved to speed their bicycles along, kicking up all kinds of rubbish that she could sometimes hear clattering against the window. So she thought nothing of it, making a mental note to get the glass filled again.
That evening, there were seven cracks. That couldn't be right -- there were no cyclists coming past today, and she hadn't heard anything, but somehow a second tiny hole had made its way to her window, drawing a new pattern of perfect cracks. No stone this time: perhaps it came straight through but she couldn't find any debris. Humming in confusion, she thought little of it, deciding to make that mental note a physical sticky note which she carefully applied to the fridge door.
The next morning, there were two more cracks, and no entry hole. They hadn't expanded from any of the other cracks... This definitely wasn't right. Where did she put that sticky note? It wasn't on the fridge, nor the floor. She found it in another window. Not on, in. Encased between the glazing and crumpled so she couldn't read it. Below it was a single, crystalline glass flower. She picked it up, staring at the delicate glasswork, and frowned. It would live on the kitchen table for now. For some reason, she thought nothing of it.
That evening, she heard the cracks forming. The creak and crack of glass was deafening in the cottage, ringing in her ears as she ran to investigate. There were more and more lines growing in the window, like something was running a single, sharp claw along it. The cracks, she realised, were spelling a word.
H E L L O
Did.... did the window just greet her? Before she could think anything of it, the glass creaked and shifted again, cracking away from the frame. She stepped back, half expecting the entire window to break inward and scatter shards along her nice tile floor, but instead the shards shifted inward, gathering themselves and reshaping until there was a human-sized crystalline figure sitting in the windowsill.
It smiled, and when it smiled there was a quiet sound of snapping and crunching like the glass was breaking and reforming with every movement.
"Did you like my gift?" It asked, and its voice was like the twinkling of shattered glass hitting the floor of an echoing cavern. She didn't know why, but something felt familiar about it, like she'd known it her whole life. Like it had always been there. Mute with shock, she nodded.
"Do you want to go for dinner? I don't eat but you do. It's nice."
Mute with shock, she nodded. The glass girl hopped down from its perch, its footsteps gentle and tapping on the floor. "Let's, then."
The window was a person. The window asked her on a date. She had spent so many years sitting by that window, admiring the way the old glass distorted the view just slightly, like looking through a portal. It was the oldest window in the building, still there from the original build. She adored the window; took care of it. Never quite understood why.
The window was a person, and the window had asked her on a date. Somehow, she thought nothing of it.