The Swallow

In a small house, on the Irish coast, a woman writes a letter to an unknown correspondent. She ponders the evanescence of memory and art. Her home brims with traces of life—faded photographs, scattered artworks, some unfinished. All is shrouded by the constant murmur of the sea: that vast canvas of everything that was and will be. In a small house, on the Irish coast, a woman writes a letter to an unknown correspondent. She ponders the evanescence of memory and art. Her home brims with traces of life—faded photographs, scattered artworks, some unfinished. All is shrouded by the constant murmur of the sea: that vast canvas of everything that was and will be. In a small house, on the Irish coast, a woman writes a letter to an unknown correspondent. She ponders the evanescence of memory and art. Her home brims with traces of life—faded photographs, scattered artworks, some unfinished. All is shrouded by the constant murmur of the sea: that vast canvas of everything that was and will be. In a small house, on the Irish coast, a woman writes a letter to an unknown correspondent. She ponders the evanescence of memory and art. Her home brims with traces of life—faded photographs, scattered artworks, some unfinished. All is shrouded by the constant murmur of the sea: that vast canvas of everything that was and will be.