Whispers

Sitting on an old wooden chair, gazing out the second story window, she sat. Her whole life she had barely spoken, being painfully shy, and had merely followed others or been alone. She was used to it, really. The ice-cold rejection, a dead weight on her heart, had faded into her senses, like an old wound that still aches on winter nights. For twenty-nine years, all her thoughts were bottled up inside, and there they stayed.
Until today.
Today she sat by the window, looking out at the cold-withered lawn of late November, and she whispered. In hushed tones she told every secret. Every hidden love, every harbored grudge, every delicate admiration, strong opinion and insightful thought were made known, as the heat from her breath drew condensation from the frigid windowpane. Her pale fingers, thin as bone, trembled in the cold but still she whispered, never blinking an eye, never taking her gaze off the view from the window.
She only told her sad story, and the window listened. With perfect attention the window absorbed every word.
Ferverently she whispered, faster and faster, her words becoming slurred and hard to distinguish, but still the window listened. She leaned against the it, forehead and hand pressed against the frozen pane and told the last of her life.
"The end." she breathed,
pushing herself back, and fell into the welcoming fire.
She never screamed.

When the rain started, and the fire went out, all that was left was framework and one window, that still held someone's last breath.