Her eyes are grey.
Her hair is straggly and wet.
Her fingers are stubby.
The nails are chewed and broken.
Her teeth are crooked, jagged things.
Her sigil is the hooked ring.
One day her hook will catch your heart.
Describing her, we articulate what she is and why she is: when hope is past, she is there.
She is in a thousand thousand waiting rooms and empty streets, in grey comcrete buildings and anonymous hotels.
She is on the other side of every mirror.
When the eyes that look back at you know you too well, and no longer care for what they see, they are her eyes.
She stands and waits, and in her posture the pain no longer tells you to live, and in her presence joy is unimaginable.