The lady walked to the end of the ledge and turned.

She was calm; not tear-stricken or hysterical like the usual suicidal cases.

"It's a logical calculation; There's hardly anything worth living for," she said.

My heart pounded at the imagery of her hair, scattering in the wind as she plummeted and finally, splattering on the ground, caked with blood and brains.

"No," the words escaped from my trembling lips.

"Yes."

I shook my head, unable to believe that my first year as a counselor would end with such a scenario. Why such desperation? Perspiration trickled down my forehead.

"Can I feel your hands before I depart? Just give me some warmth. I'm feeling cold in this rain," She told me with pleading eyes.

I searched my head for solutions. Warmth? Warmth? I searched through the inner brackets of my memory for psychological theories to cling onto. Why this desire for a simple gesture of warmth at this final juncture in life? I saw Sigmund Freud taking a swig of vodka and mocking me with his elongated bony finger. "ID....ID....ID...." I heard my old professor muttering methodologically at my ears. "Mayhem, it seems like you have not learnt your theories well."

I reached out. My left hand was quivering in the vacuum. The rain fell onto my brows.  The drops felt like shards of ice lacing the tip of my forehead. Time had stopped. I looked into the hollow darkness of her eyes. Her pupils shimmered like a beam dancing in the harshest of Siberian winters. For a moment, there was recognition. There could be no mistake. She was but the manifestation of the Little Match Girl who gazed at the last flame of light and saw hope. Imagined hope.

She clasped onto my hands lightly. It was soft.

I nodded.

She smiled.

And flew.