In a large, empty room, where everything seems covered in a diffuse white light, a young female figure stands in the center, standing on a smooth, shiny floor, almost like porcelain. The light has no obvious source: it is white, enveloping, almost clinical, but with a softness that caresses every edge. There are no harsh shadows; everything seems suspended in an atmosphere of silence. The girl wears a light, white linen dress, a natural fabric, that falls smoothly to her bare feet. The fabric has subtle wrinkles and captures the light with a vivid texture. Her expression is serene, introspective, neither sad nor jubilant. Her gaze is directed slightly downward, as if contemplating something she cannot let go of. From her wrists, ankles, and waist hang completely white chains, thin and matte, not metallic, but of an indefinable material—perhaps ceramic, perhaps painted plaster or weathered marble. These chains rest on the ground without tension, extended in curved shapes, as if they had long since surrendered to gravity. They don't imprison, but they don't completely free either: they are there, beautiful and heavy. Around them, the space is pure emptiness: just a white wall with subtle cracks, as if traced by the light itself. On the ground, some dried flowers, also white (gypsophila or withered petals), mingle with the links, lending a fragile and organic texture to the whole.