If memory were architecture, what would you build to mark what mattered?
A field of crosses in the sand—temporary, impermanent—yet each one marks a threshold.
Not only of those who fell, but of those who remained.
Not a battlefield. A mirror field.
Grief doesn’t always arrive with clamor
Sometimes, it is the silence between markers that stirs the loudest.
A single light, cold and high— not the sun, but a spotlight of remembrance.
It casts long shadows across the sand, stretching grief until it touches everything.
Each cross cuts its own darkness.
Each absence draws its own line.
The result is not a pattern, but a resonance.
This is more than absence.
It is a field where memory becomes light and shadow.
Each cross in the sand is not a marker of death,
but a threshold between presence and forgetting—
trenches of silence pressed into soft ground.
What stands here is not architecture.
It is alignment.
Of sorrow.
Of choice.
Of dignity.
About the gear: This image was captured with the Leica M10 Monochrom and the Leica Noctilux-M 50mm f/0.95—not for drama, but for quiet precision.
The Monochrom doesn’t interpret color; it records only light and shadow—truth without embellishment.
The Noctilux, wide open at f/0.95, here plays no tricks.
There is no glamour here.
Its shallow field does not soften; it separates.
The sorrow holds at the center.
Its weight is no longer indulgent. It becomes ceremonial—like bearing witness to something that should never be taken lightly.
