She touched the glass. Cold. The condensation wasn't on the surface. It was between the panes.
He'd been right. They'd lasted sixteen years. Longer than some marriages.
Arlene felt something loosen in her chest. "And it works?"
That night, Arlene sat in her armchair with a blanket over her knees. The fog in the window caught the streetlight, turned it into a soft, glowing orb. She thought about her husband, Frank. How he'd insisted on double-pane windows when they built the addition. "Good insulation," he'd said. "They'll last."