She stands alone. The crowd rushes past, pretending not to see her. But she knows they do. She knows they look at her, sees the recognition in their eyes, but they look away. She stays that way, standing there, her pale face vanishing within the mass of people, as though she's not there. As though she doesn't exist. But she does.
She feels so separate from them, like they live in a world different to her own, they rush past, see the unwashed hair, tattered clothes and keep their eyes in front. They're so desperate to avoid contact with her, with anyone, that they don't recognize the beauty surrounding them. But she does.
Deeply she breaths, feeling the crisp, evening air that draws it's cool fingers around her, enveloping her. Slowly she turns her face to the sky and watches as the first glimmering star breaches the grasp of the gloomy clouds. She lowers her face, sees the last touch of day, as the soft, orange glow tries so desperately to maintain it's hold on the world until finally succumbing, letting go, allowing the dark night to take place.
With darkness surrounding her she moves, slowly at first, then with more purpose. She walks until the dark has swallowed everything, until the only light shines from within warm houses, shining on people and conversations she will never know. They don't feel the cold licking at the edges of her worn coat, feel the dampness creeping again into her tattered boots. But she does.
She sleeps alone each night, in a hidden corner of an old church yard, surrounded by overgrown bushes. She has made a home there, feels safe within those walls, feels protected. There's a beauty within the old building. For hundreds of years it has stood against time, although run down in places, you can still see the hours of pain and love in it's design. The glint of sunlight against stained glass windows. She hopes that maybe there is still love and respect like that in this world, that maybe someone will build something else like this and it will be remembered. She knows she won't be remembered. But it doesn't bother her.
She curls into a ball, hugging the faded pieces of newspaper to her chilled body, shuddering. But she is not disheartened. She sees the beauty in the world that the people in their houses miss, while they walked, ignoring her, they missed their chance to absorb the last rays of sunlight in the day, to see the beginning of another night. They missed the scent of roses in the air, carried so gently by the wind, the last flight of the day birds, their colours reflected in the light. As they sit in their houses, they miss the reflection of the moon at night, it's twin resting on the surface of the still lake, then disturbed so swiftly by a tiny insect. They miss it all. But she doesn't.
She pities them. She may stand alone each day but she is not lonely. She takes comfort in the beauty she sees, absorbs it and allows it to ease her broken heart, feels it fill her spirit with strength. She is lost. She knows she is lost, but still she has hope. She will find her way. With the breeze stirring fallen leaves, and the gentle hoot of an owl in the distance, she sleeps.
