A frost-covered leaf in the early sun becomes a quiet mirror—still, shimmering, and almost waking. In its frozen ribs, I sense my own season of pause and the first small stirrings of renewal.

A weathered red door becomes a quiet portal of possibility—peeling paint, wandering vines, and a fleeting shadow inviting us to wonder what worlds might open when we dare to believe in them.

In the aftermath of burning to ashes, what was once cover becomes a wing—charred beams fanned open to the sky. An invitation to reflect on ruin, lightness, and the quiet possibility of flight.

A rusted excavator rests after the work is done. In the stillness, reflections begin to form—hinting at what can emerge through broken ground, once the water clears.

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.