A weathered face stares out, deep lines carved by time and hardship. The eyes hold quiet strength, a lifetime of stories unspoken. Warm tones soften the stern features, hinting at resilience beneath the weariness. It’s a gaze that lingers, pulling you into its silent narrative.
Bare branches claw at a pale sky. Snow blankets the ground, thick and undisturbed, swallowing sound. A lone path cuts through the stillness, its edges blurred by cold. The air feels heavy, waiting. Something lingers just beyond the trees—a presence, or perhaps the memory of one.
A dimly lit Victorian room, heavy with patterned wallpaper and ornate furniture. Shadows pool in the corners, but a single lamp casts a warm glow over a vacant armchair—as if someone just stepped away. The air feels still, thick with the weight of unspoken stories.