Faded ink bleeds into the paper when attempting to copy Silas’s lineage, each stroke dissolving before it can fully form—a darkening of detail rather than clarity. The oldest family canvases are covered in these attempts, a palimpsest of near-legible names and dates. One feels less like discovering ancestors than choosing which fragments to bear witness to, accumulating impressions instead of facts. A fine layer of dust settles on the unrecorded spaces between branches, obscuring as much as it reveals; clocks tick onward, indifferent to the selective remembering that builds a life from what remains.
