Somewhere between yesterday and never, she sits – bare in thought, dressed in ink and haze. The cigarette isn’t a habit; it’s a metronome of stillness, marking time for memories too soft to speak. An urban still life, a quiet portrait of melancholy wrapped in tattoos and breath. Each line on her skin carries a story she never told out loud. The smoke rises like a whisper, curling through the silence. No movement. No smile. Just presence.
