Tina Bell Vance

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What Ghost Humanity

A dimly lit room, as seen through a broken windowpane. Shadows stretch, dancing with fractured memories. Animal skulls rest on a worn table, their empty eye sockets staring, seeing. The room seems to be speaking, whispering of forgotten stories and silent regrets. Beyond the frame, a tree’s shadow claws its way into the space, as if reaching for something lost, something never found. The atmosphere is thick with untold secrets.

Signs of Life — What Ghost Humanity

A dimly lit room, as seen through a broken windowpane. Shadows stretch, dancing with fractured memories. Animal skulls rest on a worn table, their empty eye sockets staring, seeing. The room seems to be speaking, whispering of forgotten stories and silent regrets. Beyond the frame, a tree’s shadow claws its way into the space, as if reaching for something lost, something never found. The atmosphere is thick with untold secrets.