About the work

She carries that journal as if it’s the only thing that remembers, or the only thing she dares to let remember. Maybe she buried it once, beneath the roots of this very plum tree, only to dig it up years later, its pages still smelling faintly of damp soil and forgotten afternoons. It contains the precise coordinates of a place on the distant plain where something was lost, something not meant for anyone else to find, not even her younger self. Each entry is a negotiation with the wind that never stops blowing out there, a promise whispered against the vast, indifferent sky. But the journal never explains why she’s standing here now, in that crisp white shirt, as if ready for something to finally begin, or finally end.