Her gaze is direct, unsoftened, but not unkind. She looks outward without apology, as if she has already answered the questions that might be asked of her.
Her hair is dense and built up, carrying the weight of time and repetition. Around her neck, the gathered form reads like a ruff or collar - something once imposed that has become armour.
Isolde belongs to Her Kind - women shaped by endurance, who no longer explain how they survived.
