Lilac blossoms drift across a fjord’s still water, two landscapes agreeing to share one frame.

A grid of four rooms: red curtain, black static, sleeping pigs, and a row of empty hooks.

A man stands in the lit doorway of a dark house, the garden behind him arguing for departure.

In sun-shattered woodland a man shields his eyes, the light arriving in coins and blades.

Twice over in blue: a moustached man in a cap beside vines, keeping both his appointments.

Over a dusk-blue town, a window layers its own recollections — a candle, a face, the roofs.

Panels of noise and vacancy around one small remembered field — the archive down to its last view.

A parlour of paintings, a green surveillance inset, and small loaves glowing by firelight — one evening in three currencies.

A charred, twisted relic presented on the table’s wood grain, the day’s finding from an unnamed fire.

A hooded silhouette waits at the curtained window, patient as furniture that has learned to stand.