There is a sorrow to her—not the weeping kind, but the heavy, silent weight that bends the spine over years. The drawers in her room gape wide, emptied of the memories they were meant to cradle. Behind her bed, a fan from her past unfurls in ghostly stillness—a canvas of lives she once lived but can no longer name. She walks on, as all do when burdened by the merciless erosion of time, though with every step forward, it seems she leaves more of herself behind.
