Lyra is a woman who has learned how to let the wind in.
Her hair lifts outward as if caught mid-turn, refusing stillness. There is no guarding here, no veil - her face is open, softened by experience rather than hardened by it.
Her mouth holds the suggestion of a smile, not for the world, but for herself. She is not performing joy; she is remembering it.
Lyra belongs to Her Kind - women who return to themselves after being held too tightly for too long.
