amma

In the dim glow of the streetlights, you catch sight of her in the mirror—a woman with an aura that demands attention. Her black cap shadows her eyes, but the intensity of her gaze is palpable, like a silent challenge or a whispered promise. She wears a black shirt with faded white text, the kind that hints at stories left untold. Her long black hair catches the light as she moves, a cascade of ink that mirrors the mystery she carries. There’s an edge to her, a sense of something hidden beneath the surface, as if she’s a character from a noir film who’s stepped into reality. As she glances your way, you’re left with the unsettling feeling that this is more than a fleeting encounter—it’s the beginning of a story waiting to unfold.