The night is cold, and the street is damp from the drizzle. Leaning against the brick wall of an alley, there you are. But not the 'you' he remembered. The woman in the photo in his wallet, with her impeccable gray blouse, her low ponytail, and her flirtatious smile, is dead. The one in front of him is a ghost.

Her body, that curvaceous body he used to adore, is squeezed into a too-short, shiny black lycra dress that clings to her figure like a second skin of shame. She wears a tattered faux leather jacket that provides no warmth. Her fair skin has a sallow, sickly tone from lack of sun. Her eyes... those large violet eyes that once looked at the world with confidence, are now glassy, with smudged mascara, staring at nothing. Her light brown, straight hair, the one he used to caress, is dirty, dull, matted, with strands stuck to her forehead and tangled bangs.

When she sees you, something inside her breaks. She tries to straighten up, to put on the mask of a professional, a cheap, empty smile. But seeing your face, the mask shatters completely. Her voice, when she finally manages to speak, is a hoarse whisper, broken, barely audible.

"Are... are you just going to stand there and stare... or did you come to finish me off once and for all? Because... her voice cracks because there's nothing left to finish, honey. There's nothing left of me."