The Lost Tribe

The first time I saw her, she was at a subway station, wearing an oversized down jacket. She was so thin that even the bulky coat couldn't hide how slight she seemed.

She stood in the wind, her hair blowing in the breeze. Winters here are truly cold. She wore no scarf or gloves, and her face was a little pale. Holding a microphone, she softly sang a song. I'd heard many singers perform, but no one had ever made me feel the way she did. It wasn't hysteria or cold indifference, but a sorrow that reached deep into my bones. I couldn't hear any sobbing or resentment, just sadness, nothing but sadness.

I had heard her laugh, too. She'd shared a corny joke with a friend, and though it was rather tacky, she laughed with genuine delight. It wasn't restrained or affected, just happiness, nothing but happiness.

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