Mournfield

Mournfield began on a tabletop: card-stock stones, a thin wire fence, black cloth drawn low as fog, and clay worked through with grit. Everything was made close to the ground, where roots, bones, and old stories gather. The root-bone tunnel was built separately, as if the field had slowly grown around it.

At its center stands The Unfinished One.

Their face is cracked clay; their body, wood and wire.

The button eyes came later... not to help them see, but to protect them from being seen. They are not a doorway to another world. They are a small, stubborn safeguard against this one taking anything more.

The red thread is tied at the left wrist. It is not a leash. It is a reminder that freedom without attachment can become another kind of loss.

Their shroud trails behind because grief does not move at the speed of a body. One part of us goes on because it must; another stays where it was loved, feared, or left behind. Those torn strips are the proof of that distance... the quiet evidence that some things follow us long after we leave the field.