Last journey ...

Paris, 1794, late afternoon light cutting through chimney smoke. A young woman in a simple white chemise dress sits on rough wooden planks in an open horse cart, hands bound before her. Her bare feet dangle over the edge. The cart lurches along cobblestone streets lined with crumbling buildings, their shutters thrown open. Ahead, the guillotine rises against a grey sky—wooden scaffold stark, blade catching the last light. The crowd presses close, faces twisted by carnival excitement and revolutionary fervor. Some reach toward the cart, others jeer, a few weep silently. She looks neither right nor left, staring at the instrument waiting for her. The National Guard march alongside, bayonets fixed, tricolor sashes across chests. The cart passes a wall plastered with death warrants, fresh ink still wet.