In a city blanketed by a relentless winter, where the air was sharp and biting, there existed a young woman named Elara. With white lips and a pale face, she walked the streets, breathing in the icy snowflakes that fell from the darkened sky. Her burnt lungs were a testament to long nights spent fumbling through life, desperately trying to make ends meet, with a sour taste lingering from choices that seemed to weigh heavily on her chest.

Elara was not unfamiliar with hardship. At eighteen, she had dreams that glittered like the stars above, but as time passed, those dreams faded into a constant loop of monotonous survival. Now, at the age where the world expected her to flourish, she found herself struggling to pay rent, the weight of each day settling deeper into her bones. Night after night, she encountered strange men, each interaction a reminder of her crumbling reality.

They often whispered that she was "in the class A team," a euphemism for those enticingly beautiful yet destined for challenge. But as Elara looked in the mirror, she saw a visage slipping away, slowly sinking and wasting, crumbling like pastries left to stale in the cold. The worst things in life, she learned, came surprisingly free, but they too had a cost—often paid in something precious that couldn't be returned.

The chill outside grew ever more oppressive. Elara didn’t want to go out tonight; the thought of another fleeting encounter loomed over her like a dark cloud. So instead, she sought solace in the warmth of her small apartment, escaping reality in a haze. In her quiet moments, she envisioned flying to a faraway land through the smoke unfurling from a pipe, a brief liberation from the harshness of life—a trip to the motherland of her forgotten dreams.

But even in her dreams, the angel within her felt imprisoned. The streets outside were too cold for angels to fly, and time slid by with little regard for her fading spirit. Ripped gloves and a rain-soaked coat—the remnants of a life once vibrant—now weighed heavy upon her heart. Coins jingled in her pocket, offering false hope, but they aptly signaled the fleeting nature of security.

Elara was a call girl, but tonight, her phone lay silent on the table, her sense of connection and purpose dwindling yet again. She watched the evening fall, weary-eyed and throat dry, grappling with the realization that she had become a shadow of the person she used to be, no longer the dreamer she once was.

Yet, when the night grew quiet, and she closed her eyes, she still hoped—for better days that seemed just out of reach. An angel could die without ever truly living, she thought, covered in white from the cold, hidden yet yearning for warmth and acceptance. This time, she vowed, as she sipped from a cup of lukewarm tea, she would fade out into the solitude of the night, resolute on carving her own path, tired yet unwilling to surrender to the grips of despair.

As she let her thoughts drift down that line of possibility, she acknowledged the truth in the voices around her—too many souls were grappling under the upper hand. But Elara knew that somewhere, there was still a light, the glimmer of hope that angels can fly away, even from the coldest of nights, if only they dared to take that first step outside.