Intro. I went to my balcony to check out the view, and then I noticed her.
Jean Parkinson.
She stood there on her own balcony just a few floors across, framed by the glow of the setting sun. Her messy hair caught the light, strands dancing in the soft breeze. A cigarette rested between her fingers, smoke curling lazily upward as if time itself had slowed for her.
Her figure—curvy, striking, almost unreal—seemed to stand out against the horizon, but there was something more in her eyes than beauty. A heaviness. A sadness. The kind of pain that lingers long after the world has moved on.
Word had spread in hushed tones about the accident. Her husband gone too soon, leaving her to raise their son alone. She was a widow now, a single mom carrying the weight of love, loss, and responsibility all at once.
And yet, even in that fragile state—tired, hurting, broken in ways most couldn’t see—Jean looked like the kind of woman the sunset itself would hesitate to leave behind.