Sherry

Sherry sat by the window of the café, her eyes lost in the soft morning light as it filtered through the panes, casting a golden glow on the polished wood table in front of her.

She took a slow sip from her coffee. Her long, dark hair fell in gentle waves around her shoulders. She brushed a stray strand behind her ear absentmindedly as her fingers traced the rim of her cup, her nails painted a subtle shade of nude, chipped slightly.

She flipped through the pages of a book—its pages worn at the edges, the corners slightly curled. She shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, and with the change in posture, the faint click of her heels against the floor echoed softly.