You walk past it thinking it’s a mirage, something flickering in the corner of your eye. But the shimmer stays. And the closer you look, the less certain you become. Tiles? A mosaic? A pool floor, maybe? You start seeing patterns: a grid that dissolves and reforms as the light shifts. It looks like water, but it’s still. And then you realise: it’s a table. A small, round coffee table, built from hundreds of tiny glass fragments. It behaves like a surface of memory, reflective, layered, quietly hypnotic. Not just furniture, but something in between: part object, part illusion. It sits still, but refuses to stay silent.