Still Gaze

The room was sparsely furnished. Only a bed, a dresser, and a rocking chair. The rocking chair held no blankets or half-worn clothes. It still looked new. The dresser held no knick-knacks or half-open drawers to indicate a person occupied the room. And the bed only had one thread-bare blanket on it, meticulously tucked in. Not even the covers teemed with life in this room.
There were three windows, all closed. In front of one, stood a girl of twenty years. She had long auburn hair, stringy and unkempt. Her skin was ghost-white dotted with freckles that seemed to fade more and more everyday. The pajamas she was wearing were faded and torn.
Her nose was grazing the pane of glass, but no breathy fog developed. Almost as if she wasn’t even breathing. Her gaze fell outside the confines of her room. But nothing moved. Not in the room, not outside. Nothing dared penetrate the box that was her world.
Day in and day out, she stared out that window, unmoving. As if waiting for something.

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