Night is a special time. Many spend it at home, in front of the TV or smartphone screen, but not everyone. Public transport drivers and doctors also work at night, some engage in nighttime sports, others return home from gatherings, and lovers stroll embracing each other. At night, encounters with people and objects are perceived as unique, as if the daytime noise has been lifted from the world, and only special events pass through the nocturnal filter.

Perhaps this happens because in the genetic memory of every person, nighttime has been imprinted as the most dangerous period. Predators go hunting at night, and attacks from hostile tribes can occur. In unsafe urban areas, the risk of assault is higher than during the day. In darkness, a person loses the sharpness of vision, and therefore, control over the world around him. That’s why at night, a person’s senses and perception become heightened, even if they are in a safe place. We perceive the world differently at night.

I aim to showcase moments that imply a narrative: the hidden beginnings and endings of untold stories. These are the instances where our heightened senses at night scream that they cannot exist on their own, that there is something concealed from us nearby. By day, they might be mundane scenes, but at night, they take on new meaning, unsettling the vestiges of our psyche, which, much like in the Stone Age, scans the night for a tiger rather than an antelope.