A purple iris, solitary and solemn, is reflected in an old, broken mirror, like a dream that has never been told. The cracked reflection does not distort the beauty, but amplifies it — fragments of light and shadow tell the story of an irremediable past, of a love that has fallen apart under the weight of time.
In this space suspended between the real and the symbolic, the flower seems to float, surrounded by a melancholic air, of a forgotten century. The dew on the petals is the tear of patience. The mirror becomes the altar of a silent confession. It is the art of breaking and rebuilding — where beauty becomes more intense in the shards.