The cold glass against her forehead. Next to it, her too-small hands on the windowpane. Behind it, another life would begin; she just didn’t know when. Again and again, she stood there as if the cold windowpane had to remind her that she could feel. A pleasant coolness. The window offered both a view and resistance. It kept her gaze open but also held her in place. What she was looking for, she couldn’t say. For hours, her eyes rested on the November willows outside the window. November willows in spring, in summer, in autumn. Her eyes were fixed, distant, on their way to another time. No one asked about her, and her loneliness remained undisturbed. She didn’t count the time; she didn’t want to remember. When she felt nothing anymore, she pressed her forehead and hands a little harder against the window. Maya, my girl, tells the story of a young woman who is in search of her own story and desperately fights for her identity. She is a border crosser, navigating the boundaries between life and death, between dream and reality.