[ WP ] While light takes a tiny fraction of a second to pass through a normal window pane , it takes 50 years to pass through `` slow glass '' .

It ’ s a big hit at parties. His birthday arrives just a few weeks after he moves in, and as soon as the cake is cut and the champagne bottle popped, they all drag chairs to the patio door and watch. On New Year ’ s Eve, John sets up the fireworks in the backyard while everyone else outside peers through the glass, trying to see the ball drop in 1963 on the tiny television set in the old couple ’ s kitchen. By the time St. Patrick ’ s Day rolls around, John ’ s buddies have devised a drinking game. Take a sip if the old lady is knitting. Another sip if her husband dozes off in the chair. Chug if she kicks him under the table to wake him. 
 
 Easter weekend, Margot and her kids drive up from Indiana. Cold still clings to the air, but by Sunday morning the sun is shining, the grass brown but alive beneath patches of snow. John and Margot sit at the kitchen table, their chairs turned to the sliding glass doors, watching John ’ s nephews play in the yard through one door and the old couple host Easter brunch through the other. 
 
 “ How old do you think they are? ” 
 
 John shrugs, blowing on his coffee. “ I ’ d say—seventies, maybe? There must be three generations out there. ” He squints, scanning the backyard through the slow-glass door. The skies are—were—cloudy in 1963, threatening rain, and yet at least thirty people are gathered outside, the ladies in dresses and elaborate hats and the men in shirts and ties. 
 
 “ I don ’ t know. People got married and had kids a lot earlier in those days. ” 
 
 “ I ’ d still say seventies. Fred has a cane, he ’ s definitely up there in years. ” 
 
 Margot looks at him. “ Fred? ” 
 
 “ I got tired of calling him ‘ Old Guy. ’ ” 
 
 She gives him a wry smile. “ And the woman? ” 
 
 “ Ethel. ” 
 
 Margot laughs. “ You ’ ve got the wrong decade, John. *I Love Lucy* was in the fifties. ” 
 
 “ Close enough, ” John says, and drinks his coffee. 
 
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 As the nights grow milder, John spends more time on the back patio, watching the slow-glass from the outside in. Eventually he buys a patio set at a garage sale and takes to eating dinner outside, grading math tests to the sound of crickets while Ethel knits and Fred combs through the newspaper. 
 
 He doesn ’ t notice anything is wrong until a few days after it must have happened. Thunderstorms keep him inside for the better part of a week—and though it means he gets to enjoy torrential downpours in one pane of glass and cloudless nights in the other, he misses his Fred and Ethel. Finally, on a Friday, the skies clear, and John spends the weekend outdoors, watching for the old couple. Soon, though, John realizes that Ethel is the only one home. 
 
 She eats alone. She knits alone, fingers pausing now and then as her gaze drifts to the floor. A few days every week, a woman John recognizes from the Easter party shows up, bustling around the kitchen, washing dishes, chattering about something that draws the occasional halfhearted smile out of Ethel but little else. 
 
 More and more often, Ethel ’ s eyes lift to the slow-glass. She and her husband never paid much attention to the sliding glass door—John suspected early on that they had lived in the house for so many years that the slow-glass had become less of a marvel to them. But now, Ethel watches the glass the way she and Fred used to watch the *Andy Griffith Show*, hands idle in her lap, focus fixated on whatever view she has of the past. John gazes back at her, watching her eyes flicker. 
 
 Fifty years back for her. 1913. “ How long have you lived here? ” John asks, trailing a finger down the glass. “ What do you see? ” 
 
 In mid-June, John wanders out to the patio after dark and finds Fred and Ethel ’ s kitchen packed up in boxes. His heart sinks. On the last day of the month, John catches her with the final box from the kitchen in her arms, standing where the dinner table used to be. She looks at the slow-glass, and with a heavy sigh, says something. John can ’ t hear her, of course, nor can he make out what she says. But as she leaves the kitchen, John waves at her, his throat tight. “ Bye, Ethel, ” he says, and then sits down to finish his dinner. 
 
 -- - 
 
 Weeks pass, then months. The house in 1963 remains empty, and John prepares for the new school year. The first week of classes brings sweltering heat and a broken A/C system; John envies the thunderstorms wailing through 1963, puddles dappling the lawn like spots on a Dalmatian. 
 
 He doesn ’ t meet the new homeowners until well into September. John is lugging the lawn mower out of the shed when he turns around and finds a girl staring back at him through the slow-glass. She ’ s younger than John, maybe eighteen, dark hair looped behind her ears and loose around her shoulders. John abandons the mower and climbs the steps to the patio, approaching the glass until he and the girl are face to face. 
 
 He recognizes the wonderment in her eyes, smiles at it. Is that how he looked, the first time he saw the slow-glass? Something makes her laugh, and she spins around, gesturing at a woman by the sink—her mother, judging by the resemblance. The older woman comes to the door, standing behind the girl and placing her hands on her shoulders. John watches them speak silently to one another, wishing he were better at reading lips. In time, the mother leaves, unpinning her hair as she heads toward the living room. But the girl stays, sliding into a chair by the kitchen table and gazing raptly at the glass door. 
 
 “ Have you given her a name yet? ” Margot asks the next weekend over the phone. 
 
 “ Don ’ t need to. She gets letters in the mail all the time and opens them at the kitchen table. ” John glances up from his lesson plan and watches the girl set the table while her mother cooks. “ Bonnie Baker. ” 
 
 Margot hums a note of approval. “ Well, now you have her name, address, and the year she moved in. You could totally find her on an ancestry site or something, if you wanted to. ” 
 
 “ I guess so. ” John leans back in the patio chair. “ I ’ m not sure I want to. There ’ s something special about getting to know her firsthand like this, you know? ” 
 
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 ( This got longer than I was expecting, whoops. To be continued! ) 

