She is heading off to work today at some meaningless cubicle somewhere, wearing that raincoat for the first time since then. It’s raining hard, and she closes her apartment door gently, almost as if it is the closest thing to a loving parent that she has. Her steps down the hallway and toward the elevator sound like that of a soldier’s march before a grueling and perilous war.

Later, she will return from her battles with the rain, the loneliness, and the meaningless cubicle, and I will want nothing more than to give her that warm soldier’s welcoming—banners and flags draped behind my words telling her that the war is over and, regardless of what the others might say, she has won.