She wore a pale blue cotton blouse, faded from many washes, and her glossy black hair was gathered into a bun with nothing more than a plain wooden hairpin. A few wisps fell beside her cheeks. The soft glow of the setting sun spilled over her, tracing the exquisite lines of her profile. Head slightly bowed, she focused on the embroidery frame in her hands. Her slender fingers pinched a silver needle, guiding it deftly in and out of the plain silk. Her movements were serene and graceful, flowing with a rhythm all their own.
There was no cracking of melon seeds, no coquettish posing, and no flirtatious glances darting about.
There was only concentration, an almost reverent focus as she immersed herself in the world of thread between her hands. The setting sun danced across her lowered lashes, but could not reach the deep, unyielding melancholy in her eyes. Her sorrow was so profound it seemed to bear the grief of the whole world, a heart-wrenching contrast to her youthful, lovely face.
