A dragonfly, rendered in sharp black contours with stained-glass wings of crimson and ice-blue, punctures the weathered surface like a lucid thought breaking through sedimented time. The ground is a palimpsest of ochres and turquoise, its scraped, circular striations reading as ripples, records, and resonant fields—space made tactile, as though memory has been pressed into plaster. Suspended between delicacy and abrasion, the insect becomes an emblem of fleeting grace that nevertheless leaves an imprint, suggesting transformation not as escape but as an attentive hovering over what has been lived.