She stood on the pavement, staring at her reflection in the glass. The same glass that had once revealed a painful and haunting truth.
Had only she heeded the horoscope warning, she never would have been tripped up on debris.
Looking down, the penny caught her eye, marking the spot.
The sky was desolate with low-hanging grey clouds. Not the dark ominous clouds that prophetically announce an impending storm, but a light grey, less sinister version.
Still, it was desolate.
The air was filled with an eery silence; the only disturbance was the quiet rustling of the few straggling leaves that clung desperately from the barren branches.
The neighbourhood, once bustling with the laughter of children playing outside, was still and quiet.
She sat alone on the balcony, gazing out over the infertile landscape, when her eye caught the words on an empty case of beer – Imported from Italy. She wondered how different her life would be, how different she would feel, had she actually been an Italian import.