There she was, sitting on a bench with a crumpled piece of paper on her hands. It wasn’t that kind of special one except the scarlet color that was painted on it, locking her eyes on the spot.

Straightening it,  she let her eyes roam the pretty hand-writing on the surface.

“Kris...” she mumbled the writer’s name written on the bottom corner of the paper. Without her knowing, a lone tear flowed freely from those beautiful orbs of hers. “Who are you? Why do you write such painful words?” she asked quietly in sad tone.