No visitor. No lover. No audience.

​

Only her, and what she begins again each night at the same hour. One gesture after another, in the same order, in the same light. What once felt like a ritual for him became, without her quite realizing it, a ritual for herself.

He left. The ritual stayed.

​

And in that repetition, in that stubborn return to the same gestures, the same space, the same silence, something shifted. What she once did to be seen, she now does without a witness. And it is exactly there, in that chosen solitude, that she found herself.