Where The Leaves Don't Tremble

She sits in the quiet certainty of her own presence, just being. The mood that I like to paint. 

Outside her, the world keeps folding in on itself — brittle headlines, interrupted seasons, too many questions with no one listening for the answer. But in this room of dappled light and fractured calm, she holds the centre.

The terracotta folds of her dress still carry the warmth of another country. Her bare foot rests like punctuation, firm and unbothered, as if to say: I belong to no one but myself.

Behind her, the leaves grow wild and green. 

And though the world beyond the frame may feel unstitched and breaking in places, she does not bend. She leans back into herself like a question that doesn’t need answering.
A quiet force in a broken world.