The rain had stopped, leaving the cobblestones slick and reflecting the weak, yellow glow of the streetlamps. She stood rigidly beneath the awning of a closed bakery, clutching a single, wilting rose. Her silk scarf, the color of faded lavender, was plastered to her face, and her hands were numb despite being tucked deep into the pockets of her worn coat. Across the square, the grand, ornate theatre stood dark and silent, its gilded doors firmly shut. A single, flickering light shone from a high window, a tiny, unreachable beacon. She hadn’t moved in over an hour, her gaze fixed on that window, a silent, unwavering vigil in the damp, deserted night. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of water from the awning, each drop echoing the hollowness in her chest.