In a corridor of near-silence, her face appears with an understated glow, as though lit from within by fading twilight. Her eyes, soft and steady, contain the echo of a lullaby carried over old wooden floors. There is no harsh line in her expression; every feature seems to dissolve into the next like watercolor bleeding gently across handmade paper. Within her parted lips rests a half-formed question that turns into a sigh, releasing pale ink wisps into the quiet. Look closely, and you might see old libraries and hidden gardens reflected in the curve of her cheek—a geography of memory etched with compassion.