Geniuses, they were called. Because they had solved the problem of what to do with the windows the neighbors wouldn’t open. The neighbors’ children were always looking through the windows, signaling, but the neighbors were always saying they didn’t have any children. The old frames of antique window are warped, they said. The glass panes are not standard sizes, not easily replaceable. The wood swollen and fragile with rot, the antique wooden windows were a hazard, foggy in some places so that the mist was like translucent curtains. The foggy lace mist hid as it revealed the ghost faces—not, not ghost faces, ghostly faces, ghostly, because surely the children were real, despite what the neighbors said, growing angry and embarrassed. Even slightly unsure? Unsure of what? That what they said was true, that what the claimed to know in their hearts might not be, that what they thought they knew about themselves and the house they had lived in all those years could not be taken for granted? If they did not know themselves, their lives, or their own house, how could they know anything? How could anyone ever know anything or anyone ever again if they could not claim to know themselves? They became like strangers to each other because of the windows. Some windows were like televisions. Other windows were like movie theater screens. Each and every night, the screenings began as the sky darkened and the windows began to light with curious scenes, beautiful little faces peering out at us.