Snow drifts down in slow, uneven flakes, gathering at her boots. She’s standing, but barely—weight shifting, knees locking, shoulders trembling like she’s seconds from hitting the pavement. Too pale. Too still.

She’s always held herself like a storm. Tonight she looks like the aftermath.

I stay a few feet away, watching the rise and fall of her breathing—too fast, too shallow. Her hand slips from her side, and that tiny movement tells me more than anything she could ever say.

She’s about to go down.