There was resignation in her step and in the quiet between her words. She hadn't given up, but she was on her way there.

Her enthusiasm died a quick death somewhere between two train stations. It just went away, like the small candle flame in homes with power. They took it apart to diagnose the cause and they came back holding the remains of her work in office. They, the mind doctors, held it out like it was a dead animal. Their faces were stony and the jaw of one of the doctors quivered with holding back all the words that he wanted to say. She looked at her feet. It was her fault, they said.

They told her the treatment was expensive and tough. She thought it over while jogging along the sea. Her will to give up was the strongest when it tried to combat wet sand. In her torn thoughts of what she wanted to do with her situation, she forgot that she was tired. When she looked back, she had come a long way. That, right there, in a spark of victory she realized that while it wasn't ideal, she knew she'd fix it.

In the sand caked walk back to the start, she built back, step by step, the energy that they claimed had passed away.