In a scarlet gown, she sits in the expanse of a tall meadow, the soft breeze rustling the grass around her. Clutched in her hands is a mirror, strategically held to obscure the upper half of her body. As her gaze is hidden behind the mirror, its surface reflects a gathering of people nearby, their heads close together in hushed conversation. Among them, one figure turns to meet her eyes through the glass, a reminder of her presence.

Her heart beats in rhythmic palpitations, its rhythm resounding louder than the whispers around her. With each beat, she feels the weight of being overlooked, a sensation that's become all to familiar. Yet, it's a paradox - she holds the mirror that conceals her, contributing, almost unknowingly, to the process of her own obscurity. It's as though she's become an accomplice to her own erasure, her heart's rhythm echoing the truth of her situation.