The rain had stopped, leaving a slick sheen on the cobblestones of the old city. She sat hunched inside the doorway of a shuttered bookstore, the scent of damp paper and forgotten stories clinging to the air. Her face, pale and drawn, was tilted slightly upwards, catching the weak, grey light filtering through the gaps in the wooden slats. A single, wilting paper flower, a cheap souvenir from a long-ago festival, lay crushed in her lap. She was meticulously folding and unfolding a small, worn photograph – a picture of a laughing man with kind eyes – her fingers tracing the lines of his face with a tenderness that bordered on desperation. The street was quiet, the only sound the rhythmic drip of water from a nearby awning, each drop echoing the slow, quiet ache in her chest. She didn’t seem to notice the passing cars, the hurried footsteps of the few pedestrians braving the chill. She was lost in the fragile memory held within that faded image, a memory that felt increasingly distant and unreal.