She moved through the corridor of light like an unanswered question, composed yet unreadable, a living screen onto which a nation cast its unresolved stories. Commentators scrambled to decode posture, fabric, the angle of her gaze, as if certainty might be hiding in a hemline. But her restraint held, a deliberate absence of explanation that turned speculation into a kind of collective confession.

By the time she disappeared from view, the walk had already mutated into a thousand competing narratives, none fully satisfying, all insisting on meaning. In that stubborn silence, something unsettling emerged: our dependence on images to tell us who we are, what we believe, what side we’re on. She gave them almost nothing, and still they built a universe around it—revealing less about her, and far more about themselves.