At Your Window, Late

Yuka Brevi
I was about 14 when he died. I don't remember why. There was a fuss on the stairs, people gathered, the priest came, and the cross stood leaned against the wall. There was crying, laughing, and storytelling. We had a reason to stay outside longer. We liked that atmosphere of the sacred, of an ending. After he was buried, for weeks, the light stayed on, even though no one lived there anymore. We would gather and invent stories about demons, angels, beings from other worlds. We were disappointed when, one night, the light didn't turn on anymore.
 
 Siranuș Hakobian
Unholy things were happening in your house. I watched you for so many full nights, and because you didn't lower the blinds, I saw you frisky and naked in front of the windows. I don't know what you were doing, but it was something devilish. I could tell by the fact that, although I was about to fall asleep, I couldn't close my eyes, though they hurt terribly. When you climbed onto the broom and flew off to the moon from the windowsill, I fainted. When I woke up, you had returned from the moon and were dressed. What was I supposed to do? I asked you to be my wife.

Bogdan Sebastian Burjan
She couldn't sleep. Not during the day, nor at night. A pale ray of light passed through her window, gently illuminating the darkness. She pulled the curtain a little. She saw the sad play of the moon. It weakly beat among the aged, dry branches. On the darkened path, there was only a dry drawing of faded shadows. Quick steps echoed slowly on the same path. The last streetlamp flickered out. Under it, she saw a silhouette. Wearing a coat and a large hat. Tired, she searched in vain for his look. Who was it. A stranger. Or a memory from a long-forgotten story.

(Translated by Andreea Sorana Oltean / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)