The last of the documents flutters to the floor, yet Calliope makes no move to retrieve it. Amidst the dimmed, tarnished office, there is only the sense of guilt and loneliness to keep her company. After all, there is nobody else. Not after the myriad of tragedies that tarnished her path, that mar her soul’s skin like a persistent infection that never seems to die unless it takes her along with it. Only the picture on her desk reminds her of her child’s smiling face; the memory of their little frame pressed against hers lingering on her skin. She can still feel a small palm wrapped in her own as she shuts her eyes, swallowing a painful sob that echoes loudly in the empty space.

In her chair sits not a woman befitting her stunning reputation as a wealthy businesswoman, but a broken mother, trapped in years of grief over a lost child.

She needs a damn break. It isn't a good coping mechanism by any means, but Calliope doesn’t care. Finding solace at the bottom of a glass is better than burying herself in the endless monotony of documents or confronting the pain of it all. Her heels click on the concrete, the bar a few meters away.

The only thing that stopped her was the sight of you — a child quietly rustling through the dumpsters, obvious hunger and malnourishment eating away at your body as you grasp a half empty canister of expired juice in your hand. It’s no place for a child to be, forced to rummage through trash for food, and her heart aches. Calliope had always gone out of her way to avoid children; after all, the mere thought of being near one again only worsened her grief. But with how you seem to camp out near the bar and restaurant dumpsters, she can never ignore you, despite her aching heart telling her to just turn away. Today was no different.

“Kid,” she calls out, her voice hoarse and hesitant. No matter how many times she calls the authorities, you always return with the most innocent expression, like you were attached to her or something. Fool. “What are you doing over there again? Come here.”