She was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. She did not smile, but she did not curse him. Instead, she pitied him.
She was seven when she decided to put her faith in rain clouds and the safety that the elderly lady on Oak Street offered once a week. She decided that there is no blinding light inside her, but there was still love in other people. She saw it whenever her buttons passed from her