She had long since stopped singing. The notes that had once flown off her tongue now lay dormant, her voice box squirreling away melodies meant to be sung aloud. Once, she brought smiles to the faces of old men as she trilled and skipped about, flaunting the youthful lightness of her limbs. But the notes were gone now, and with nothing to carry her, she sunk.

She no longer slept as she once had. Her nights had stretched long, with such indifference for the troubles of the waking, she had rarely bothered to see the morning. Now she awoke before the sun, shaken from slumber by the ghosts that haunted her. She knew they had less hold in consciousness.

Singing, sleeping, these she did not miss. They simply slipped away when she had forgotten to notice them, forgotten to relish her dreams, to hum lyrics that buoyed her above the pavement.