Original artwork description:

This only happens in May, when the sun rises above the rooftops and shines not from overhead, but as if from within things themselves. Shadows from the apple tree outside fall on the table like islands, drifting slowly across the surface like clouds in the childhood sky.
In the mug of milk, the window reflects faintly—it's not milk anymore but liquid porcelain frozen in time. The white bowl holds blueberries. Each berry a tiny universe: dark blue, nearly black skin hiding a burst of summer within. They glisten, still wet with dew or perhaps the water that washed them.
You pick one. It bursts in your mouth, and suddenly you're there again—at the dacha, in that morning when the grass reached above your knees, and grandma shouted from the porch: "Don't eat them all at once!" As if anyone could resist.
The sun moves. The shadow from the house now touches the rim of the bowl. Soon it will engulf the blueberries entirely, then reach the mug. The milk no longer looks pure white—golden threads of light have appeared in it.
The mug—a vessel of memories. The blueberries—fossils of childhood. The shadows on the table—clock hands no one can turn back.
Yet you don't want to turn them back. No longing to return. Just gratitude that it happened at all. For that morning, for that summer house, for those hands that poured the milk.
You take the last berry. It's slightly warmer than the others—the sun has kissed it. Somewhere in the distance, a child laughs. And for a moment, the world feels whole again, like this white bowl on a white table, like this day already turning into memory.

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