Zawadi, a pretty Kenyan woman in her twenties, fills the frame in tight front-facing close-up, her deep brown skin catching the cool, overcast light that filters through the narrow gap between buildings in this graffiti-lined Kreuzberg alley. She is a three-eyed woman: two eyes in their familiar place and a third set on her forehead, all three glassy and matching, each welling with tears that catch the muted late-afternoon glow. Her short natural coils, styled close to her scalp and clear of her forehead, frame her face without shadowing it, leaving all three eyes fully visible. Her lean build is evident in the sharp angle of her jaw and the delicate line of her neck. Tears slide down her cheeks in parallel tracks, one pooling briefly at the corner of her mouth before dropping, her lips parted on a shuddering breath, brows drawn tight with grief. She wears a mustard-yellow oversized blazer, its wide lapel folding loosely over a fitted white tank top that catches a sliver of the soft, shadow-faded light. Thin brass bangles stack together on one wrist, faintly glinting as her hand rests near her collarbone. Behind her, exposed brick walls and layered street art blur softly in the medium depth of field, their colors reduced to muted, desaturated tones by the overcast sky. The Fujifilm GFX100S with its 63mm lens renders her face with exacting clarity, every damp eyelash and trembling muscle sharp against the gently falling-off shadows, while fine film-like grain settles over her skin and the brick backdrop alike, giving the whole frame a quiet, textured stillness that holds her sorrow suspended in the gray Berlin light.