Anne Smith visits the same shops every Saturday, and on Sunday, she attends church. That is all you will ever get to see her with people. She doesn’t like fancy things or anything that bends more light than it should.

She prefers a simple life but her mind resides elsewhere. It often drifts to the view outside her office window – a serene scene of an empty field by large bodies of water. She finds her utmost happiness in these little things.

She bears the moniker, ‘the old cranky woman’. It is hard to understand Anne and hence, it is easier to hate her. The young girls usually choose the latter as they believe that if the number of wrinkles is less than the number of fingers on your hand, and that if your blemishes can be concealed by a touch of foundation then you are immediately superior. I realize that people usually dislike others because they embody qualities that expose their insecurities. In this case, Anne is the constant reminder of aging, and they fear the comfort she finds in it.

Anne is special to me. She is the home that I run to on a Christmas day, understanding me as only she can. The only way you can reach her is through her work email. Should you forget to reply, she assumes you’re lost in another, ‘world,’ as she puts it.

Her job embodies her so it is strange when her email rejects your emails. It is difficult to find a person without social media or phone number, where the only knowledge is of her residence, work and her favourite shops. After days of searching, it becomes apparent that she has left this world.

If I said I had no prior knowledge of this, I would be lying. I continued searching nevertheless in hopes in proving myself wrong. If only I could slow down when we were walking, or annoyed her more often, or replied to her earlier, or visited her sooner. I just need a bit more time to complete things I have started. I can build a family and a haven for us. But time waits for no one and it does this without mercy.

Now she is gone and there is nothing I can do except time myself while writing this – a ritual I follow to control my emotions. As this is the only time I will ever grieve, I worry for those that have families queued up for their turn.