This is a story about an old woman who is looking back on her life. Any comments and critiques would be appreciated. These are the opening lines: Every morning, she made herself a cup of black coffee, pulled up a chair to the kitchen window and looked out. The universe was in curvatures, it was bending all around her. There was small stack of books on the kitchen table. She was trying to understand, to see the thread holding the cosmos together. It may not be a thread, it could be a shadow. The common shadow of all things. She took a long sip. It was 7:30. Her white hair was in a flimsy bun on the back of her neck. Her hands had age spots and the edges of her eyeballs were a little milky. Her mouth had the wise purse her father had had at that age, many years ago. She lit a cigarette. Outside, the morning was foggy and quiet. Her mother had hated foggy weather. It made her feel suffocated. But Eira loved the mist, she always had. She had lived in Lahore for many years, had woken up on December mornings and seen wisps of white fog drifting eerily by window. Her breath would fog up the glass as she pressed her hands against, willing to look past the haze. On the bus, the passengers would huddle together in their tweed coats, trudging along potholed roads and grassy banks of the canal.