Wild
Child

Scattered across the space are objects that defined Alex’s childhood — the red Fender guitar gifted by his father, a bodyboard from days at the California coast, a skateboard, a camera on the shelf preserving every memory. The child reaching for the wall isn’t decorating it. He’s writing the name of who he already was.

Alex as a child, standing between the silhouettes of those who are no longer here. His father — solid, warm, cream — still present in shape. His mother — outlined, transparent — there but already fading. The boy smiles. He doesn’t know yet what absence means.