My camera's idle as the urge to retreat into my shell, reminiscent of a photograph in an ink-drenched evening, a blue twilight, a winter night without winter. The first pygmy owl of the year on this particular evening, its flute-like call echoing like a metronome, never weary, at 5 PM amidst twigs at 1300 meters altitude. The ache of not finding it, and ultimately, letting it slip away. Sometimes, inundated with sights, we choose the solace of unseen realms. To be haunted, a tender echo of what could have been.