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The dusty street where Sarah lived was being washed clean by today’s rain.

She had chosen this village, this street, having been told she would find the peace and quiet she had been longing for.

As a shy yet brilliant writer, the small house seemed the same, shy, forgotten. A perfect fit. Sarah thought she could work well there. Thoughts rippled through her mind, leading her to a new idea.

Being shy from an early age had left Sarah on the outside and alone for most of her life. She had heard people whisper about her, mistaking her shyness for snobbery. She wished she could blend in the way other people did. How could she tell them of her longing to be like other people, to laugh, to go out dancing. She had been asked in the past, but always refused.

The lilting sound of rain on the window added to the thoughts already growing in her mind. She would yield to them, write them in her new novel.

As she was about to move from the window to start working, she caught sight from the corner of her eye, the brilliant speckled breast of a thrush. And Toby, her neighbour’s cat about to give chase.

To Sarah, this was the life outside her window. She picked up her pen and waited for the new words to begin, to tell people all about the shy young woman behind the rain-spattered window…