She sits not to rest, but to listen to the weeping of the sky.
The wooden bench absorbs the damp chill of the afternoon. Clad in a dark suit and beret, she holds a paper that has become blurred by the mist. The distant lamp posts flicker, failing to pierce the heavy, grey veil that separates her from the rest of the world. It is a moment of pure, unadulterated sorrow wrapped in the beauty of a fading autumn day.
"Rain is not merely water; it is the sky's attempt to wash away the silence we keep inside."
