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The tree exists twice—once above the waterline, once below—but fog makes both versions uncertain. Heavy mist erases edges, softens branches, turns a solid oak into something ghostly. The reflection mirrors perfectly what little the fog allows us to see: a suggestion of trunk, the memory of limbs, detail dissolving into white. This is reflection at its most fragile, doubled but barely visible, symmetry preserved even as clarity vanishes. The tree is there. The water confirms it. But fog wraps everything in such thick haze that presence and absence feel like the same thing.
The tree exists twice—once above the waterline, once below—but fog makes both versions uncertain. Heavy mist erases edges, softens branches, turns a solid oak into something ghostly. The reflection mirrors perfectly what little the fog allows us to see: a suggestion of trunk, the memory of limbs, detail dissolving into white. This is reflection at its most fragile, doubled but barely visible, symmetry preserved even as clarity vanishes. The tree is there. The water confirms it. But fog wraps everything in such thick haze that presence and absence feel like the same thing.