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Even when I cannot see the way, I paint the birds who never leave. Because someone, somewhere, is still watching me—like a mother in the crowd.

When I was four years old, I got lost in a bazar. I remember the moment like a flash of lightning—people everywhere, noise, my tiny hands shaking as I cried out for my mother.

What I didn’t know then, and only learned later, was that she had never lost sight of me.
She stood nearby the whole time, watching with calm eyes while I felt the panic of being alone.

It lasted barely a minute. But the feeling stayed.

Today, as I painted three birds, that buried second returned—not with fear, but with a quiet understanding. These birds are not illustrations of that moment. They are companions of it. They hold the emotion without the panic. They remind me that even when I feel adrift in a crowd, there is a presence watching, holding me in ways I cannot see.

Maybe this is what trust really means:
To keep walking, even when you feel lost.
To keep painting, even when you don’t know why.
To believe, as a child might, that someone is still there—even if you can’t see them.

These birds are that faith with wings.
They do not cry. They stay.