In the corner of a quiet bookshop, an old woman sits by the window, her frail hands resting in her lap as she gazes out at the world. The rain patters gently against the glass, blurring the bustling street beyond, a scene that unfolds without her. Her once-vibrant eyes, now dulled by time and sadness, follow the hurried passersby, none of whom notice her. She is invisible, a fixture as forgotten as the dust-covered books lining the shelves around her.

Her name does not really matter. Decades ago, she was a teacher, sharing her love of literature with bright, eager minds. Her days were filled with purpose, her heart with a quiet joy. But time has a way of taking things. First, it was her students, growing up and moving on, their once-frequent letters becoming occasional, and then nothing at all. Then it was her friends, one by one slipping away until only their memories remained. Finally, it was her husband, the love of her life, taken too soon by illness. Since then, the silence of her small apartment has been overwhelming.

The bookshop is her refuge, a place she visits daily, though she no longer reads much. Instead, she sits by the window, hoping someone might stop, that perhaps an old student or an acquaintance might recognise her. But no one ever does. She’s become like one of the old books on the back shelves — worn, overlooked, and gathering dust.

Her story is one of quiet heartbreak, of a life once full of connection and now fading into obscurity. The world moves on without her, and Margaret, though still here, feels as though she’s already been left behind.