A woman is sitting at the broken spire.
She has been sitting there for quite a while, now, and so have two drained cups of coffee.
Half a slice of her favorite pumpkin pie uneaten and pushed to the side, next to many sheets of paper, some crumpled, others bearing lines she is referencing.
Her clothes are clean and crisp, skirts in a fashionable length, her skin had a healthy blush to it but the woman herself was clearly troubled, white teeth clacking against the dessert fork in her mouth in an undignified display.
Her other hand is missing a glove that has also been pushed away, and is holding a seagull feathered quill, it hangs suspended above yer another piece of paper. She leans a closed fist to her elbow, bent forward as if trying to decipher something she has written.
Pushing it all away, she stands up and paces the room before returning with another cup of coffee, and picks her quill up.
Lifts and places the piece of paper on top of all the others, and reaches for another, only stopping to wipe her eyes before she continues lest the paper be stained.