The day has nearly exhaled its last breath, and the sky, awash in softened hues of dusk, leans gently into the coming night. A young woman, poised in quiet stillness, sits on a seaside railing. Her attire whispers of another era, one where time moved slower and waiting meant something sacred.

She leans against a street lamp whose warm glow offers the only certainty in the fading light. Her left hand rests absently on the life buoy, a small gesture, but one weighted with memory - as if she clings to the possibility of return, or perhaps to a promise made beside the sea.

Behind her, the bay curves inward like a held breath. The rocky outcrop stands guard, enclosing the shore as the tide retreats. A trace of grass edges the sand at her feet, grounding her in the present, yet on occasion, her gaze drifts far into the horizon - not searching, but remembering. There is no motion in her body, only the stillness that comes when hope lingers quietly, without needing to speak.

This is a portrait of waiting - not desperate, but enduring and a glow remains, even when what was once held has gone.