She sits like a man on the bench and leans back, exhaling ghosts into the night. A clang jerks her head upright. An old man is rummaging through a nearby trash can. She watches him fish out a paper wad and open it. His eyes light up with excitement. He gorges on a half-eaten burger. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again he is gone.
At night the man in the tattoo whispers in her ear. Do not forget the morning I left.
Her diary had been reduced to ashes, some of it blown away by the wind. But her memories stayed. She never forgot. She never will.
To her, “the end of the world” is not an exaggeration because the world ends when she does.