The meaning of time can be read in the lines of a person: Lines that interrupt the face-to-face encounters, speaking in a humble voice. Inaudible in the high speed of time, yet revealing themselves in a flash of light. That is why we only recognize someone who has passed or a place from the past, through their photographs. Memories that we can never quite grasp, that cling to the tip of our tongue, are captured in photographs. It is these remnants that acknowledge the authenticity of time. The unique traces of each face, the memory that speaks the language of each hand and each look in the eyes. Otherwise, why would we gaze at a photograph? The void into which one averts their gaze or drifts leads to the place where they were born and raised, to what they have lived and seen, and to their own invisibility. It is there before us; a story, a time, a life, and perhaps even a death. The photograph captures for us the fleeting faces and memories that are passed by without entering, without seeing or hearing, without greeting.