The girl, propping her cheek with her hand and staring intently into the distance, looked decidedly displeased

If you cross the Mekong by the small ferry that leaves from central Luang Prabang, you arrive at Xieng Men—a quiet riverside settlement that feels like an afterthought to the city. The road is only half-paved, the houses are wooden and scattered, and cows wander about with the easy confidence of creatures who know that traffic will stop for them. For a place so close to a major tourist town, the silence is oddly complete, the afternoon air tinged with a dusty sweetness.

It was along this road that I saw a young girl sitting by the roadside. Her school shirt was smudged, and one strap of her backpack had slipped off her shoulder as if it had given up trying to stay in place. She rested her chin on her hand and stared into the distance with a look that could only be described as displeased. Maybe she had quarrelled with a friend; maybe she had forgotten her homework. Whatever the reason, her expression carried the sort of premature world-weariness usually reserved for people three times her age.

Even when I raised my camera, she didn’t look my way. It wasn’t shyness, nor was it defiance. It was pure indifference—the photographer simply didn’t factor into her afternoon. Behind her, a bicycle leaned against a post, and sunlight filtered through the leaves in loose, shimmering fragments. In that gently glowing scene, her profile stood out with unexpected clarity, as if the whole landscape had stepped back to let her unhappiness take center stage.