Opa was smoothing the new sweater across the shoulders of the mannequin when movement outside the window caught her eye.

She turned and jumped at a nose pressed against the glass. Small hands circled wide eyes as if focusing binoculars for a better view. Opa wrinkled her nose at the tattered grey coat that nearly swallowed the child whole. Wonderful. Another scruffy muffin loitering outside my shop. 

Opa marched to the door, swung it open, and stopped short of the rolling cart of cleaning supplies parked beside the child.  

“Young man, look at the mess you’ve made of my freshly cleaned window.”

The child giggled and tugged off the grey wool beanie. A mess of blonde curls toppled out, brushing her narrow shoulders.   

“My word,” said Opa, startled. “You’re a girl!” 

“Yes, ma’am, I’m Maisy.” She sweetly smiled at the older woman, drawing her eye to the gap between her front teeth. “I get my brothers’ hand-me-downs, but they keep me warm enough.” 

Opa shook her head. Scruffy muffin, indeed. She pointed at her cleaning cart, “Are you the child who cleans windows for some of the shops on this street?”

“That’s me, ma’am. Every day before school.” She dug some coins out of her pocket and showed Opa. “See the coins I got.”

Opa planted her hands on her hips and leaned toward Maisy, fussing. “Well, I clean my own windows, so I don’t appreciate anyone coming along and dirtying them up.” 

Maisy dipped her chin and mumbled, “Sorry, ma’am,” then pointed at the window, careful not to touch the glass this time. “I just wanted a closer look at that purdy sweater. I don’t got nothing pink.”

“Yes, well...” Not knowing what else to say and not liking the awkward tug at her insides, she shooed the girl along with her hands, then stepped back inside, letting the door slam behind her.

Maisy took one last adoring look at the sweater in the window, then wandered along, pushing the cart in front of her. 

The next morning, Opa was straightening some pants on a shelf when she spotted Maisy again. The girl gave her a small wave, but Opa simply turned around, sighing.

Even though an annoyance at the girl remained, she found herself glancing toward the window every morning from that day on. Maisy always appeared, but she was careful to lean in as close as she could without touching the glass again. Some days she’d smile at the sweater, some days not so much, but she always wandered away when she caught Opa watching. 

Then one morning as she stood there, it started raining. A few drops quickly became a downpour. Opa watched the girl’s hair flatten and drip water all over her face and clothes. 

Opa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the way Maisy didn’t move, just kept staring at the pink sweater in the pouring rain as if nothing else in the world existed. The old woman tried to convince herself all children wanted things they couldn’t have. Maisy would get over it. Yet… a not-so-quiet discomfort crept into Opa’s chest. 

On Valentine’s Day, the sweater had vanished from the window.  

Opa watched from a darkened corner as Maisy appeared, splatting grubby little hands against the window. Her fingertips flexed, reaching for the thing she desired that was no longer there. In its place, a shiny black raincoat with matching galoshes now covered the mannequin.  

A single tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a clean trail in the dirt. Then another. And another. Remembering her manners, she jumped back and used her sleeve to try to wipe away the smudges on the glass. 

Then, she looked down. A  brown-papered box sat at her feet. 

“Maisy!” she exclaimed upon reading her name scribbled on the wrapping. 

She looked to the left and then the right and, upon seeing no one, decided the box was indeed meant for her—for she was the only Maisy she knew. She lifted the box, turning it this way and that way, then shook it. Whatever waited inside only slightly shuffled. 

No one's ever given me a gift before. 

She tore the paper off with one rip. Inside the box lay the pink sweater. Although smaller than the one in the window, obviously remade by someone’s hands, it was otherwise what she had admired for so long. And matching knit mittens dangled over the edges of the box.

Her young heart puffed with joy as she cradled the pink bundle against her chest. It was the softest thing in her life. 

On the other side of the window, Opa dabbed at a surprising tear pooling in an eyelid. Her heart grew that day, too. 

The next morning, Opa looked up just in time to see little pink mittens pressed against the glass, but not smudging it. She raised her hand to Maisy and smiled.  

The young girl beamed, smiling bright as her sweater, then continued down the sidewalk, pushing her rolling cart of cleaning supplies.