A waist-up portrait, shrouded in absolute darkness except for the weak, flickering glow of a single dying candle, casting uneven, trembling shadows across the sad woman’s face. Her wet eyelashes catch the light, making it impossible to tell if the glistening streaks on her face are tears or remnants of something long faded. The entire frame is high-contrast black and white, except for the candle’s flame—a weak, golden glow, the only warmth in an image otherwise consumed by cold emptiness. Her fingers, loosely curled around the base of the candle, tremble slightly, the melted wax hardened against her palm as if she had been holding onto it for too long.