She wiped the tears, cleaned off her face, and walked into the bathroom to re-apply some make-up to help disguise her tiredness. Yet, it didn't help much. As she walked out of the bathroom, disheartened, she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure standing on the stairs by the fire door.

She knitted her brows. It was Jameson Anderson, leaning against the door, a cigarette in one hand and the other hand in his trouser pocket. He was looking out of the window absent-mindedly.

A young ...