One woman's mark is a photograph. She wears the same photo forever. It's in a store window, surrounded by mirrors and others who have been there before.

The photo represents something more than just a woman's face. It's a symbol of identity—someone's name written on paper, etched into their soul.

It's in a book. The first one, the word "Flux" appears at the start. First ever is when you see this kind of thing—a woman's photo that stays forever in her mind.

Every photo is unique and personal. It's a symbol of something else yet unknown—it's in someone's eyes. That person can't remember their own name—only the title of the photograph, the word "Flux."

When she walks down the staircase, when she steps outside this store, she sees herself again. But her image is not there.

She doesn't know where she is. She doesn't have a name to refer to or a place to look for. But something about herself stands still—it's in the way she breathes and flows.

The night that follows is dark. The warmth of the sun has moved on, but the shadows are long—unrelenting. The silence within is there all around her.

She is alone. She is not sure what to say or where to be. But someone is watching over her, expecting something from her.

When she moves, when she stops, nothing is there. It's hard to see, but it's clear.