Back to the camera, as if to say, “Look, but don’t come closer.” The open garment hangs from her shoulders like a flag — surrender or victory, depending on how you see it. Hands hold the fabric at the sides, not out of modesty, but because that’s how it belongs.

Light from behind turns her into a silhouette with glowing edges. Every contour becomes an event, every curve a story. Barefoot in the grass, as if she belonged here — between trees and shadows, between what you see and what you imagine.

Black and white makes it honest: it strips away colour and leaves what counts — light, shadow, and a stance that says everything without a word.

Grass underfoot, sun at her back, fabric in her hands. Sometimes freedom is exactly this simple.

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