I see her sitting near the windowsill. She is old, grey and frail. She spends her day sitting by the sill. Her story is in the past (presumably).
She is still as she watches the rain pelt the street, and at other times as the sun burns the tar down. In either case, she is unfazed. She has seen far too much of grime and smelt in her life.
One day, when her story is being told - I hope this window headlines an entire chapter.
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