This constellation gathers works that remain after the ending—when the story has unraveled, and only breath, ice, and echo remain.
Here, the world is no longer becoming. It is remembering.
What’s left are traces: blurred light through a train window, the hush of collapse, the breath held too long.
These works do not grieve from a distance—they inhabit the stillness that follows.
In Time Beyond Time, I do not cross the threshold. I remain beside it, listening.