She sits in an old wicker chair from her grandmother. It looks centuries old, as if it was hand carved out of bark from the old peach tree she grew up hearing stories about. The back right leg is centimeters shorter than the other three, and when the chair rocks there is a small creaking sound. It doesn’t disturb her though. In fact, she treats it as company. The sound reminds her of old conversations she used to have, listening to everybody’s problems. She had a knack for that. Listening. Not many people know how to really listen without judgement nowadays. Staring out the window, she could see the kids playing. They would ride around on their scooters, checking their mobile phones, crammed with applications for every social networking site available every five to ten minutes. These children couldn’t have been older than ten. The woman continues to gaze out the window, past the tears in the screen and the smudges on the glass. Lifting up her coffee cup, she takes a sip. It’s empty. It’s always empty. It is chipping at the edges and stained. There is yelling from the children, laughter emerges. Her expression remains blank. 

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