In the restless hours, when sleep abandons me, I wander with my camera and my imagination wide awake. It is then that the fae appear — not summoned, not sought, but arriving on their own terms.

They linger for just a breath, as if amused by my persistence, and allow themselves to be photographed. Their presence becomes both muse and mirror: delicate, mischievous, otherworldly, yet strangely at ease in the insomnia-lit streets and gardens I walk through.

My lens does not capture them as they are, but as they permit themselves to be seen — shimmering in half-light, dissolving at the edges, a blur between waking and dreaming.

These images are not records, but negotiations — a trade between sleeplessness and wonder, where the fae stop for just long enough to leave a trace, then vanish again into the folds of night.