Some photographs hold silence. This is one of them. Shot in a small restaurant in Bruxelles — the kind you’d only find by chance, and never the same way twice — this frame preserves what no longer can be: a place, a conversation, a quiet evening at a table now vanished. Two women sit facing one another, generations apart, mirrored by the soft geometry of light and posture. One speaks — or perhaps listens. The other waits — or perhaps remembers. Their hands do most of the talking, resting, folding, rising to punctuate a point. There’s water on the table, a half-empty bottle, a flickering red votive. Nothing staged. Everything…