Flowers

She does not call. But she hopes to be heard. Her parted lips hold back a word she will not speak. Her hands, joined like an inverted prayer, beg for nothing — they receive. She is clothed in yellow flowers, as if summer had chosen her to bloom. And yet, her gaze does not laugh — it searches. It pierces. It whispers without sound: I am vulnerable, therefore true. The midnight blue behind her does not contrast — it reveals. It makes her a flare, an unbroken wound, an offering without threat. She is not a frozen icon. She is the moment just before the voice breaks the silence. And if you listen closely… you’ll hear what even the flowers never dared to say.

Thank to the players. Specific thanks to the Carlyle @TheCarlyle who has won the game...