Some experiences do not take shape as a clear story, but remain in the body as traces of sensation and memory. They do not always find words, and sometimes they do not seek them. Instead, they emerge through material, through weight, through spaces that open and close. The works were created as an attempt to touch what cannot be said directly. They hold a tension between stability and disintegration, between what appears whole and what remains cracked and fragile. They move between outside and inside, between expression and the routine that continues, and an inner wound that does not heal, refusing to disappear or be forgotten. In childhood, there is a simple longing to exist in the world without fear—to move freely, to be moved by small things, to gather tender moments, to believe that the world is open to me, that my body belongs only to me, and that closeness to others is a safe and natural place. Sometimes something fractures that sense of innocence and changes everything: the way the body holds memory, the way silence occupies space, and the way part of childhood is left behind before it has truly had the chance to unfold.