“In my opinion,” said Austerlitz, “we do not understand the laws that govern the return of the past, and yet I have the increasing impression that time does not exist at all, but that there are only different spaces, in each other, according to a higher stereometry, between which the living and the dead can enter and leave according to their disposition. And the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that we, we who are still alive, assume the appearance of unreal beings to the eyes of the dead, visible only in particular atmospheric and light conditions.” — W.G. Sebald, Austerlitz Mortal man, Leucò, has only this of the immortal: the memory he carries and the memory he leaves. Names and words are this. Before memory, they too smile, resigned. — C. Pavese My father passed away on the morning of June 7, 2019. The images speak of what came before and after his passing. In a time frame that no longer exists, I tell my father—on the night before his disappearance—what has brought us here. It is a way to honor him, to find a sense of order in the pain, to seek balance amidst the grief. In a night I reclaim, in a waiting I know will end, I recover pieces of our life to accompany him as he once did for me—only this time, I do it. The images include superimposed photographs, family archive material, screenshots of old VHS tapes, exchanged messages, and pages from a diary my father wrote at the age of 21, which we found a month after his death. This diary begins in 1965, just a few months before he met my mother. The rest are fragments, suggestions, memories, and new images. When my father passed away, I searched everywhere for things that reminded me of him. I wrote down in a notebook the things we did together—memories blurred between childhood and adulthood. These images are a way to recover that bond. In truth, I don’t want the image of my father to vanish into the darkness. The work speaks of the time we share with the people we love. Time is synchronous; everything happens together, everything happens at the same moment. We continue to love those we lose deeply, and that love returns to us in a circular, continuous flow—because everything has been, and everything continues to be. I wanted to remember continually, not to forget. If my father’s body was taken from me before I had the chance to say goodbye, then I needed at least that presence—a presence that came from afar, intertwined with the sensations of childhood.