She sits still. Crouched down on her knees, she waits.

Dressed in black, her entire body is cloaked  with the colour of the dead. Her back is hunched over and her neck tugs  her head towards the ground. As she seeks for breath, buried beneath layers of fabric, she waits.

She stares inside a den from a halfway opened door, an unwelcoming sombre entrance. Her weak knees hurt from sitting on the cold stern concrete steps. While she contains her hopes and stares inside the den, she waits.

The wind intentionally hisses around the woman’s shadow. At times seeping in between her skin and her dress, making her shiver as she recovers herself swiftly, at other times playing with the frail wooden door, taunting the woman who waits.

She enjoys the warmth, laughter and whispers she overhears. Her heart aches as she deciphers the words of joy and compassion from inside. Memories come to her mind and she smiles while reminiscing about her past.

Those images are engraved in herself, deep inside, but she always has trouble allowing them to resurface. The presence and voices she perceives daily coming from the den brings them alive. Now she doesn’t have to wait anymore.