I can see her now. Amy sits by her window, curled up in a blanket with a soothing cup of chamomile tea. She somberly watches the rain pitter-pat on the thirsty ground below. A single tear cascades down her flushed cheek. Quietly, as an abandoned child might rock itself, she sways to the strains of “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone…”
I could be projecting.