Liz took a deep, noticable drag, so the gray cigarette smoke meandered into the frigid dusk air. It was so cold that if someone saw, she could almost pretend it was her breath. She looked far too young to smoke, what with her height and stringy, blonde pageboy haircut. She was huddled inside her father’s too-big coat, with patches at the elbows. It was gray, nearly the same shade as the wall she leaned on.

The bricks behind her had lost their brown over the many years of soot and factory smoke. Liz shook out her newsboy cap in her right hand, tapping the cigarette against the wall while she pulled it over her ears. Wealthy men and women strode past in rich velvets and furs, on their way to hail cabs to take them far from the grim city.

Snow began to drift into the alleyway, making the entire street colorless, with only shades of gray on white. The red tip of Liz’s cig stood out in the snowy air, but she quickly dropped it, crushing it under her heel.

She slumped against the wall, invisible again.