Nyx's Last Dream

The sky was a canvas of grays, the city beneath it a blend of shadows and whispers. Rain fell in a steady drizzle, turning the streets into ribbons of silver that reflected the tired light of the streetlamps. Nyx stood by her apartment window, watching the droplets race each other down the pane, her reflection a ghostly overlay on the bustling life outside.

Her apartment, a one-bedroom on the edge of the city, was silent except for the hum of the old refrigerator and the occasional hiss of passing cars outside. It was a functional space, furnished with second-hand items that held no sentimental value, the walls bare except for a clock that ticked away the seconds with relentless precision.

Nyx's phone sat on the kitchen counter, the screen as dark as it had been for days. Friends didn't call anymore, and family was a word that held little meaning. Her parents had passed away in a whirlwind tragedy just after she graduated from college, a car accident that took them swiftly, leaving her in a void not unlike the one outside her window.

She turned away from the window, her eyes scanning the room as if seeing it for the first time. Everything about it spoke of impermanence, from the boxes still unpacked after a year to the lack of photos or keepsakes. It was as though she was poised to leave at a moment's notice, yet had nowhere to go.

Nyx moved to the small kitchen table where her laptop lay open, the screen filled with job listings. Her qualifications were solid – a degree in graphic design and a portfolio she was proud of – but the job market didn't care for pride. It cared for experience she didn't have, connections that had withered, and a spark that life had snuffed out too soon.

She clicked on another listing, her heart not in it. The roles all seemed to blur together – junior designer, assistant, intern – each one a reminder of what she had not achieved. "Five years out of school, and what do I have to show for it?" she murmured to the empty room. Her voice was flat, the sound of resignation.

The apartment felt like a cell, the rain outside like bars keeping her caged. She had come here with dreams, once vibrant and full of color, now faded to the monochrome of her surroundings. The city had promised opportunity, a chance for a fresh start after the earth-shattering loss of her parents. Instead, it had offered only anonymity, a place where one could disappear into the masses, forgotten.

Nyx closed her laptop and stood, her movements languid as she prepared a modest breakfast – a bowl of cereal and a piece of toast, eaten standing in the kitchen, a silent concession to the day ahead. There was no place to be, no one to meet. After breakfast, she dressed in clothes that matched the weather – a gray sweater, black jeans, a pair of well-worn boots.

She left the apartment, locking the door behind her, and descended the stairs to the street. The rain had picked up, and she opened an umbrella, its fabric a patchwork of dark blues and blacks. It was just another day, filled with the same tasks – buy groceries, check the mail, look for jobs, and try to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

People passed her by without a glance, each absorbed in their own world. Nyx envied them their purpose, the sense that they were part of something larger. She walked the streets, her eyes on the moving feet, the splashing puddles. She passed shops with windows full of life, cafes with people chatting over coffee, and offices with lights that spoke of industry and ambition.

By midday, she found herself at a park, the benches wet and the trees drooping under the weight of the rain. She sat on a covered bench, watching children play with a sense of abandon she could scarcely remember. Laughter rang out, piercing the gray veil of the day, and for a moment, Nyx smiled. It was a small, fleeting thing, but it warmed her from within.

The afternoon waned, and the rain eased into a mist that clung to her skin as she made her way back home. Her grocery bag held the basics – bread, milk, eggs, the routine purchase of someone who cooked for one. The mailbox held only bills and flyers, another reminder of the life she led, one marked by obligations rather than opportunities.

Back in her apartment, the silence greeted her like an old friend. She put away the groceries, the mechanical nature of the task a comfort in its predictability. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of television shows she half-watched and books she couldn't lose herself in.

Night fell, and the rain stopped altogether