Donald Trump sat slumped in a leather chair, his usually confident expression replaced with visible sorrow.
His eyes were red and glistening, a single tear tracing down his cheek as he stared out of a tall window into the gray, rainy afternoon.
His iconic hair looked slightly disheveled, and his hands gripped a crumpled handkerchief tightly, as if trying to hold onto something slipping away. The room was silent, save for the quiet sound of his shaky breathing, a rare moment of vulnerability for the former president.
