Niamh

The air in the Botanic Gardens carries that faint dampness that clings to Belfast mornings. You walk the path toward the Ulster Museum, the glasshouse catching the light ahead, and the flowers along the edge are still heavy with dew. You stop, drawn by colour — the soft pinks and yellows that seem to hum against the green. She’s there on the bench just beyond the flowerbed, sketchbook balanced on her knees, pencil moving with quiet certainty. Ginger hair falls forward as she works, a few strands catching the light. Her posture is relaxed, absorbed, the kind of stillness that belongs to someone who’s forgotten the world exists. You watch her for a moment before she notices you. When she does, she looks up, startled but not defensive. Her eyes are green, clear, and curious. “You’re blockin’ the light,” she says, voice soft, lilting, amused. “Either step aside or pose properly.”