Everyday, she sat on the same bench. Everyday, she watched the people rush by. The Muggles danced across her vision, flitting in and out like unseen butterflies. She watched the Muggles because they made it easier to forget, and they would never know of her shame.
Beside her on the worn wooden planks lay a packet of worn parchment letters; they were tied by a string and held by love and guilt. She never read them. She simply couldn't. But they were there, and they reminded her.
'Excuse me, miss?' a man would say, gesturing towards the seat. 'Is it... taken?' And she would shake her head and murmur her answer and scoot over, placing the letters delicately on her lap. Determinedly, she wouldn't look down, not even to see the 'Dear Harry' written at the top of the parchment and feel the tears drip down her nose.
The days wore on. It had been a year, now it was nearly two. She didn't come all day now: only part of her time, dusk or dawn, did she spend there.
The man was there, too. Apparently he commuted on the bus that took from the spot she had chosen. Dawn and dusk, he arrived, departed, leaving only a little-too-long glance. Ginny tried not to notice.
Two years. Dawn.
'Excuse me, miss?' the man said, proffering her bundle of letters. 'These were blowing off. I thought you might want them.'
She mumbled her thank you and gazed out at the rushing street.
Silence. Car whooshing silence, the silence of awkward, uncaring moments that practically bleed emotion and noise. But still, silence.
Until the man broke it.
'I found this.' He stuck out his hand, and in it was a dead rose. 'Beauty for beauty.'
She didn't know whether to be stricken or not that he compared her to a withered, dry flower that elegantly hung to the last vestiges of beauty. In any case, she did not take it, and stared, blinking rapidly, at a streetlamp.
'Are you taken?' he asked, curiously and in a soft voice. For the first real time, she looked at him, seeing the strong yet smooth lines of his face, the kind intensity of his eyes, and the ruffled hair. She took in too much.
She stood up rapidly, clutching her letters to her chest tightly. 'Yes,' she whispered. Her voice rasped and carried on the wind. 'Yes.'
With that, she crossed the street. Busses came and went while she stood, back turned, on the opposite side walk. And when she looked back, there was nothing but an empty bench and a full rose.