Each morning the pampas grass catches light, and he returns—an old friend, a quiet spirit, a reminder that love doesn’t vanish, it only changes shape and keeps shining through.

Beneath glass, its tendrils reached and curled, mapping invisible worlds. We called it alien, a marvel—though no one could say what it was becoming.

A jagged gap in a wooden fence reveals a child’s forgotten toys—a glimpse into another world, just out of reach, where innocence still waits for someone to return and play.

A wooden duck rests in ivy, far from water. Once carved for drift and flight, he now keeps quiet watch—half-smiling, as if he knows what it means to already be home.

A simple fire hydrant becames a reflection on time, change, and the quiet beauty found in ordinary, everyday places.

Above the city, a plane, two men on ropes, a camera tilted skyward—and in one window, is that a figure half-concealed behind leaves? Each caught in a fleeting web of looking and being looked at.