A woman stands waist-deep in icy water, hands bound, face lifted toward the sky. The tide rises around her, but her gaze stays fixed—not on the coming waves, but something beyond them. The wind whips her hair, the light catches her last breath. Martyrdom wears no fear here.
A woman sits hunched over her sewing, fingers working swiftly. Behind her, the jagged silhouette of an iceberg looms—cold, distant, yet inseparable from her quiet labor. The thread in her hands seems fragile against the vast, indifferent ice.
A wounded soldier rests by the fire, his wife reading the newspaper’s headline—”Peace.” Their child plays with toy soldiers, oblivious. The dog sleeps at their feet. War is over, but its shadow lingers in the room, quiet and heavy. Life resumes, though nothing will be quite the same.
A young woman hesitates, fingers tracing her necklace. Her downcast eyes and parted lips hold the tension of an unspoken answer. The rich fabrics and dim light wrap her in quiet suspense—will she say yes, or no?
A young woman in black gazes past the viewer, her gloved hands resting lightly on a chair. The rich velvet and lace of her mourning dress contrast with her pale, composed face—a quiet strength beneath the grief. Philadelphia society whispers about the Scott family, but her expression reveals nothing.