Fallen Drapes

She stands by a dusty window in a crumbling jug house, the early light cutting through the grime like a silent witness. Her figure, delicate and self-contained, is framed by the soft outline of worn underwear—faded cotton, modest and untouched by vanity. The walls around her are stained and cracked, their silence holding decades of forgotten breath. She doesn’t pose; she simply exists—pensive, uncertain, perhaps caught in the fragile pause between girlhood and something else. Outside, the world stirs. Inside, time holds its breath.