Nora

Her name is Nora. Two years ago, she had a job, a small apartment, and someone she thought she would grow old with. She was usually the first to turn on the lights at the office. On her desk stood a chipped mug; in her planner were notes about weekends she looked forward to. The divorce came after months of arguments and silence. Nora moved out, but could barely afford the rent on her own. Then her company began laying people off, and she lost her job. Her savings disappeared into bills and the search for new work. She spent one night on a friend’s couch, the next at a train station. Soon, she had no one left to call. In the photograph, she sits beneath an arcade in the rain. Water weighs down her coat, dust clings to her fur, and she tucks her cold hands inside her sleeves. People pass without knowing that she walked this same street to work only a short time ago. Nora pulls her blanket closer and keeps the few things she owns in a backpack beside her. Among them is an old photograph from the office. She looks at it only occasionally. She recognizes her face at once, but struggles to remember what it felt like to be safe.