The sun dissolves on the horizon, swallowed by a thin mist that envelops Lake Massaciuccoli. Time seems to have stopped. The water's breath is barely a whisper, a caress brushing against the still surface. I am alone in a world of silence and reflection.

I slowly approach the shore, letting my heartbeat synchronize with the lake's placid rhythm. The bird perches mirror themselves in the water like echoes of the past, a geometry suspended between two dimensions. There is something hypnotic in those perfect lines: a fragile balance between matter and absence, between presence and memory.

I inhale the humid evening air, dense with the scent of reeds and damp earth. The sky is a gradient of greys dissolving into the lake without clear boundaries, as if the world itself were fading into this suspended moment. Even time seems to bend, as though the water held each passing instant before vanishing.

I kneel, set my camera on the tripod, and frame the scene. I let the light imprint itself on the sensor with the necessary slowness, allowing time to slip into the image. It is a long, deep breath as if the water itself were holding onto the last traces of daylight before surrendering to the night.

I remain still, waiting for nature to grant me its final secret. I am no longer just an observer; I am part of this stillness, a note in the delicate harmony of this water's mirror. A fragment of the world reflecting and duplicating itself, just like my very own presence.

Then, without a sound, a barely perceptible breeze ripples the surface. The reflection shatters in an invisible flutter of wings. The spell is broken.

I press the shutter.

And within my lens remains the breath of the water—an eternal moment of perfect stillness.