

A cloaked figure walks away toward high ground, and eight cups stand stacked behind him on the shore.
The cups are not broken. Not spilled, not stolen, not lost. They are upright and in good order and he is leaving them anyway.
There is a gap in the stack. Five below and three above with a space where a ninth would sit, and that missing piece is why he is going. Everything is fine and something is absent, and he has stopped pretending otherwise.
He walks with a staff and his back to us. His face is not shown.
This is a private decision.
Above, a moon in eclipse. Night, and the light half hidden. He is leaving before it is fully clear where he is going.
Water runs between him and the cups. Already a crossing behind him.
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