In the shadowed gardens of a forgotten château near Montpellier, time lingers like dust in the air—unmoving, unseen, but always present. Ivy creeps along crumbling stone, and silence gathers in the corners, thick as the dusk.

A figure sits cloaked in black, still as the hedgerows behind her, as if born from the very silence that surrounds her. The wind does not touch her, nor does the sun. She is not the subject, but the echo—part of the place, part of the story the walls have stopped telling.

Here, in this quiet decay, beauty breathes through absence. And something old watches still.