She sits in the circle like a statue. As the other widows and widowers spill their insides out in detail to the group, she remains silent and motionless. She looks like a GHOST, a wraith, a lost soul wandering through the land of the living aimlessly.

Her piercing blue eyes seem to hold a sorrow and longing and despair so profound it steals your breath away. She looks at you. Through you. Beyond you. Into the void that was, once upon a time, her own reflection.

"Would you like to share with the group?" the counselor says in a gentle tone.

"I um...I feel," she fights back tears as if she was about to burst, "I'm sorry. I can't...I'm not ready."

She is so weak, so fragile, so perfect.

As the group breaks, you spot her at the coffee machine and move in.