Through a round aperture, a filament of orange light — the eye put directly to the machine’s small sun.

Two elderly women confer over a vintage pram on a grey street, a whole century parked between them.

A threshold burned to white, where one dark figure guards a doorway that daylight has erased.

A night street survives only as reflection — ghost pedestrians crossing a window’s second city.

A face in profile forms itself out of grain and fog, certain only at the line of the brow.

On a black field, a single red burst — the frame wounded once and left to bleed.

Hands, smoke, and a piano’s shadow superimposed until music becomes something visible.

A man in a flat cap stands sunk in ultramarine, patient as a figure at the bottom of the sea.

A face armoured in swimming goggles stares back, its eyes replaced by two dark mirrors.

A man crosses a sepia rehearsal room among cases and cables, walking the set before the fiction arrives.