She sleeps as if the day has gently set her down and stepped away. Her body drapes across the bench in a long, unguarded line, limbs loose with trust, breath slowed to the rhythm of rest. The chair curves behind her like a quiet guardian, its warm wood echoing the tones of her skin and the soft spill of colour beneath her. Fabric pools and folds in blues and violets, carrying the memory of movement even in stillness.
Her head rests on a pillow of light, face turned inward, eyes closed, not in escape but in surrender. One arm trails downward, fingers relaxed, as though sleep itself has taken her hand. The background dissolves into pale washes, offering no demand, no narrative—only space. Everything here leans toward calm. This is not the sleep of exhaustion but of permission, a moment where gravity, time, and thought loosen their hold, and the world agrees, briefly, to let her dream undisturbed.
Port Macquarie