She, alone, stares out of the window as the dark clouds assemble, diaphragms heavy and full with song. Her face profoundly still, she waits like a mannequin set in cold plastic, forever condemned to silence and immobility, forever staring out of display cases. She watches the orchestra of raindrops as each drop hums their own note, finding their place in the tune. They beat the rhythm on the window pane in invitation. But she does not sing.

She catches a silver of her reflection in the window, and I am startled.

If I am quiet enough, she might find me.