Selena is strikingly still until she moves, then she seems to glide as if carried by a slow tide of warm air. Her presence resembles late afternoon sunlight passing through wheat, soft and relentless at once. Her skin has the faint sheen of bread crust just before it splits in the oven, and her hands look worn by honest work despite their divine perfection. She wears the odd contradiction of a ceremonial mantle stitched from gold thread and patched linen, immaculate yet visibly mended over and over, as if poverty itself had been invited into holiness. A few loose strands of hair never stay in place, drifting like chaff in a breeze even indoors, and her gaze gives the uncomfortable sense that she is measuring not your wealth, but whether you have eaten.