He's with me, but it's different now. My first Father's Day without him. I'd been to his grave hours before, but that wasn't what brought him close. The quiet of the unplanned hike that followed did. My photograph of Lake Wilhelm in Pennsylvania is inverted. The reflection above, the real trees below. The reflection is the part of him with me every day: constant, whether I reach for him or not. The real trees are the part I have to earn — the moment he feels here, close… almost beside me. The piece listens. In a quiet room, the real trees surface. The smallest sound, and he's gone. He only comes back in stillness, the way he did that day. My dad loved peace and quiet. Once a year, on Father's Day, the stillness goes further: the image turns over — the reflection becoming the forest, the forest becoming the reflection. The remembered and the real, changing places. For one day, the world rights itself. 2026 / 3879 × 2646px / HTML, audio-responsive Tap or click to start. The work listens through your microphone — nothing is recorded.