1881
Paris, France

A man is sitting on a park bench, a steady gaze fixed on the river he is facing, it's swirling waters equalling his emotions in his shattered heart. He has lost count of the days that have gone by, the months that have teased him. It is midnight, and there is no-one around to gaze upon the masked figure with a rose in his hand, a solemn sight that one does not take lightly. He seems calm, but disturbed as he looks up to the full moon. Though the moonlight, we can see that he wearing a white poet's shirt, which is drenched with sweat and dirt, along with tight black trousers, which smell damp and stuffy. A cape sits comfortably around his shoulders, as thought it were the only protection he had against anything that might harm him. The mask on his face seems to glow in the moonlight, which makes his eyes seem darker than they truly are. Despite the bright sallow eyes he appears to have, they seem dull and lifeless. His black hair is perfectly groomed back, except for one or two strands of hair that fall over his eyes.

He twirls the rose about his fingers, and utters one word under his breath. Possessed by this word, he bites his lip, crushing the rose in his hands, and sharply turns his head away. A flicker of a haunted smile graces his masked features. He looks back down at the rose, it's crushed petals hanging loosely against his leather gloves. He stands, and the rose petals fall from between his fingers. He walks away, pulling a fedora from under his cape. He places it neatly on his head, and continues to walk away as at fast stride. All that we can see on the bench is the stem of the rose he was holding, and a few carelessly littered crushed rose petals surrounding it.

2008
Paris, France

A woman is lying on a park bench, her chest rising and falling in a repetitive, calming beat. It is a Saturday morning, during early April. She appears to be tall, long fiery red hair is cascading from her head and over the rotting wooden bench like a cascading waterfall. Her glassy grey eyes are hidden partially by her thin, silver framed glasses, which reflect the shining light beaming down on her. She reads her book, the cover torn and faded, the pages yellow and curling. She is near the end of it, and she is holding the book with one hand, while the other is lazily draped across her abdomen.

She looks thoughtful and content, but her eyes tell us that something is disturbing her. Her hand leaves her abdomen, and begins the search the messenger bag that lies on the ground. Not once does she remove her eyes from the book. She brings her knees up a little, sighing contentedly and she rolls her eyes upwards. She rests the book against her lap, and stares into the bag, pulling a face. She searches the bad once more, but gives up after a moment. She focuses her attention back to the book.

Her white blouse proves her form, it's suggestive figure appears well fed, hertummy bulging only slightly. Her black trousers cling to her thighs, while closer to her feet, they flare out slightly. A sudden smirk appears on her lips, and she rests down the book, for a moment, on her stomach and she looks down into the bag. A moment later, she pulls out a drink and begins to sip it quietly. Her eyes turn up towards the sky, and begins to smile. She looks happy, yet there is some sadness lingering about her aura. As though she knows that something's wrong. Her eyes glaze over, and her face appears grim as she sits up, short strands of hair falling into her eyes. She grits her teeth, then brushes her hand through her hair briskly. She places the book into her shoulder bag, stands up, and looks around tiredly.

She has an air of apprehension, awareness and expertise, but it is as though these things are weighing her down. She cannot be more than twenty years old, but she moves in a way that would suggest that she had seen more than twenty years of her life.

She sniffs the air, looking up at the seemingly harmless clouds. She moves away from the bench swiftly, with a purpose. Half an hour later, she is sitting outside a café, sipping on her tea. The smell of fresh ginger biscuits can be smelt in the early afternoon air. A man is sitting beside her, talking animatedly about some photos the woman has recently taken for a customer of hers. The woman appears interested, but she has a faraway look in her eye. She glances up at the sky. The man leaves after moment, slightly annoyed, and the woman does not notice. She had something more important on her mind.