A somber, dark-toned artistic image of a woman's bare back, tattooed with 'IN TENEBRIS, EGO SUM' and a dark angel, in a gothic church.

Am Umbra by Giselle Virell You want to know who I am? Fine. I’ll tell you. But don’t expect light. I don’t carry it. I never did. They say I was three years old when the fire took her — my mother, Lilith Virell. I don’t remember her face. Just a heat that didn’t burn me. And ashes that didn’t fall on me. When the smoke cleared, I was standing in a crib that didn’t exist anymore. Everything gone. Except me. And one black feather. Still warm in my hand. They called it a miracle. I call it a warning. After that, it was just me and my father, Corvin Virell. He wasn’t cold. He was quiet. He raised me like a shadow — taught me to read forgotten languages, to listen in silence, to find comfort in the places others are too afraid to look. He said once: “The darkness didn’t take her, Giselle. It spared you.” I think he knew even then what I was. Most people get tattoos for decoration. I did it to remember. I built myself out of ink and truth. A Dark Angel across my back — wings shattered, kneeling, faceless Chains climbing up my spine A crown of thorns curling around my shoulders A cracked black sun at the nape of my neck Latin etched across my blades: “In Tenebris, Ego Sum.” In darkness, I am. I didn’t do it to be seen. I did it because it was the only way to hold myself together. The ink didn’t just tell my story. It sealed it. She didn’t try to save me. That’s why I loved her. Rebecca Mourne came into my life with black boots, old books, and a camera that only shot in monochrome. See more