She was moving forward slowly. I doubted if any flesh existed under her stiff clothes. The bony frame of her body supported her tedious steps. One sneaker’s inside was worn more than the other’s.
Her gaze forward. Nothing caught her attention as if she was a spectator of the hell for several decades and had lost interest in watching agony. The mixture of white and grey hair oddly cut like a young girl with the straight end behind her shoulders hinted that she was once alive.
In her crossed arms, her stubborn grip held tight the open box of red Marlboro cigarette and a lighter as if only those mattered in her life. When I passed by her, she faintly smiled at my dog that I wasn’t even sure that it was.