A woman stands alone by the harbor, lightly dressed and out of place on this unseasonably cold spring night. Her features are fair and soft, but a harsh glow seems to burn under her skin, hinting to some unyielding illness. She seems restless, uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot.

Approaching the water, she kicks her shoes off and bends down to sit on the sea wall. Off the unnerved glances from the few pedestrians passing by, she immerses her feet into the cold, dirty water. She slides her light jacket off her shoulders, her skin pyretic and fevered despite the chill in the air. Eyes turned to the sky, humming a light tune under her breath, the young woman swirls her feet in the harbor, disturbing the still water and floating detritus.

After a few moments, an out of place gust of wind breaks the otherwise calm atmosphere. A snippet of song seems to be carried on the breeze, as if in response to the young woman's own melody. A gentleman approaches, and leans down enough to set a folded newspaper in her lap. The woman opens it, eyes skimming an article detailing a recent epidemic of syphilis among the nearby college campuses. This particular outbreak seems to be exclusively fatal. The woman frowns slightly, a crease forming between her brows. It's never her fault. The young men were so eager, mistaking the heat from her flesh as desire, the flush in her cheek as lust. She shakes her head and folds the newspaper along the creases. No, it's never her fault.

The anomalous breeze blows the woman's clothing about and cools her feverish brow. Turning to face the gentleman standing silently beside her, she smiles. "I thought you forgot about me."

The gentleman, his features so alike hers save for the pallor of his skin, returns the smile. "Never."

"Never," she echoes.