A film shot shows a dimly lit kitchen with rustic wooden cupboards and a small, circular oak dining table. The scene is colored in varying shades of brown and beige. On the table, a single, gleefully polished silver fork rests. The camera focuses on the fork, bringing into sharp detail its tines and handle, exposing the scarcely visible engravings on it’s body. A large window with the blind partly drawn creates a shallow depth of field, scattering ghostly shafts of moonlight that dance around the room. The camera angle is from the side, as though we are secretly observing the communication between the fork and the space that surrounds it. There’s a back and forth panning movement, capturing both the stillness of the fork and the vast emptiness of the surrounding room. Someone’s hand enters frame, decisively grabbing the fork and immediately the scene is thrown into imbalance, the peaceful serenity disrupted. As the hand exits with the fork, we are left with a void, as if the history of the room needs to be redrawn without its star – the now absent silver fork.