I wanted to photograph the specific weight of being wrong about something that mattered. She read the weather, she checked the moorings, she told them it would hold — and it didn't. Now she's alone in the loft at dawn, doing the only thing left: fixing what she can while the whole harbor knows she was the one who said it was safe. The wet linen clinging to her isn't sensuality for its own sake — it's what happens when you've been working in seawater for twelve hours. The gold light isn't hope; it's just the indifferent sun rising on the mess you have to clean up. — Nyx