UNBURIED

Time doesn't disappear — it settles. It becomes a layer, a deposit, an invisible body beneath the surface. The glass is flooded with rain. Streams of water blur all contours, dissolving the present into a murky, shifting veil.

Until the moment the hourglass is turned. That familiar gesture sets the hidden in motion. As if time itself reverses — and from the depths, a form begins to emerge. Not a memory, not an image — but a trace. Soft, fragile, like the fading glow of something long gone.

This trace doesn't last. Only while the sand falls. Only for the length of a moment.

Unburied is a chronicle of return. Not of events — but of states. Not of the past — but its shadow. This work is about how memory doesn't arrive — it surfaces.