I return to one photograph constantly.

It shows a birthday table with a white cake my mother prepared, topped with a few candles leaning toward one side. Around it, members of my family gather, some smiling, others frozen in incomplete movements. If I shake the photograph gently, the moment itself seems to move. I turn the page and return. The colours have faded, and the album grows heavier in my hands. That was my first lesson that things pass.