It was well past midnight when Shopia sat alone on the balcony of her crumbling apartment. A light drizzle still fell over the city, and the leaking roof in the living room had filled the old bucket nearly to the brim.
Jackson hadn't come home. Whether he was working overtime or simply avoiding her, she no longer cared. Lately, he had been distant—his eyes hollow, his touch cold. This house—if it could still be called that—had long lost any sense of warmth.
She stared down at her hands. Her nails were chipped and broken. Once, they had been neatly manicured, her clothes scented with expensive perfumes, her weekends filled with spa appointments. Now? Her hair was unkempt, her face pale, her stomach often empty.
She was tired. So very tired.
The next morning, Shopia wandered into a small
