Her hair spills not as mere adornment but as awakened memory—each strand a filament of forgotten longing, reaching backward through time to touch what the face has turned away from.
The head, reversed in quiet defiance, gazes inward at the unseen past while the tendrils stretch outward, searching for the self she left behind.
They twist and coil like roots seeking lost soil, white as bone yet alive with the pulse of what refuses to be severed.
In this reversal, the body speaks what the mouth cannot: I am still here, still growing toward the light I once refused.