She sat beside me on the overstuffed sofa. Her shoulders crumpled under a heavy burden, her eyes chained to the floor. If I wasn't holding her hand, she might have sunk between the cushions, beyond my grasp. I remained silent as she told me her story. Her voice was clipped, occasionally tightening in tune with her hand. She was a shell of her former self, but I still greedily drank in her beautiful form, the faint lilt of her accent, the impossible softness of her palm. When she finished, I opened my mouth to respond, but could not find the words. She remained still. It was only when I stood and left that I heard a soft whimper follow me out. -- What is a story without feedback? You are always free to tell me what you think, brutally or otherwise.