She rests like a thought half-remembered—dark arms unfolding in quiet curves, her seat dressed in the soft rhythm of black and white. Nothing about her asks; everything simply is.
There’s affection in her form, restraint in her lines. A little theatre, a little grace—woven together like piano keys in a waltz long faded from the room.
She holds the kind of charm that lingers—gentle, composed, almost shy. And still, she knows she’s lovely.
