Adelita sits in still command of the moment, her youth held in contrast with the gravity she carries. The rifle in her hand is steady, familiar, neither threat nor ornament. At her feet, a cluster of flowers rests on stone—color and tenderness offered to a landscape marked by loss. Behind her, fractured walls dissolve into trees, as if nature itself is absorbing the memory of conflict. She looks outward, directly and without apology, her silence louder than any declaration. This is not a portrait of battle, but of presence—where courage lingers, and history pauses to breathe.