The wind rushed past her, loud and wild, but instead of drowning her thoughts, it cleared them. The city stretched below in impossible detail. Glass reflected the city lights like frozen stars, cold surfaces catching the world in brief, distorted echoes. Everything had slowed. Time no longer moved like it used to. It stretched, almost paused, held its breath for her. 

 

She was falling, and no one would know if she had slipped, jumped, or if someone had pushed her. It didn't matter anyway. Not anymore.    

 

Suspended in this private void, she caught the scent of distant rain, the faint exhaust of traffic, the murmur of the street far below. Her heart did not panic. It beat steadily, as if pacing itself for something beyond fear.    

 

Thoughts came, not in a rush but in soft waves. Life. She thought of love, and how hard it had been to hold on to.  She thought of ambition, and how it kept her moving. She thought of hope, and how it flickered even when everything else had gone quiet. And death. Not the idea of it, but the presence. Close and definite. She had always imagined it as a beginning. Or at least a continuation. A place, maybe. A state. But now, drifting in this frozen descent, she felt the possibility of nothing. Not darkness. Not peace. Just absence.    

 

Then something flashed in her mind. A picture. A drawing from long ago. Color pressed onto paper by a child's hand. A crooked house, a bright sun with a face, a small figure holding a balloon. She remembered bringing it to her dad, full of pride. He had lifted her, told her he loved it, held her so close she thought she would never forget that moment. But she did. Until now.    

 

And that woman who, later, much later, cried in front of one of her paintings. It had been her first show. Small. Almost no one had come. But that woman stood there for a long time. She didn’t say a word. She just looked, and wept, and left.    

 

These moments returned now. Sharp, clear, and real. She had created something out of nothing. She had touched the lives of others. Maybe just for a minute. But she had left her mark, however small and unimportant.    

 

A smile slowly formed on her lips. "Fucking art!" she whispered to the universe. And still, she fell.

​

​

​