She walked the staircase. Carefully. Tactfully. Her story reflected; just like water trickling down into the washbasin; in the way she walked. In her apparent blank stare. In those vigorous blinks. In the span of the minute she decided to look away. In her slow chatter. Yes, in the way she walked.
What is her story? That in itself is another story. For there is more to a stare, than eye contact. There is more to blinking than eyelashes. There is a depth in every word. In every action. And there is light in every dark step.
Shadow, that is her other name.