The work begins with an artificial flower at a grave, replaced again and again — a form made eternal by industry, standing in for a pain that is never resolved, only renewed. The grief I confront here is not that of a single gesture but of this daily return: a ritual in which love reaches for eternity, and however much is poured into it, nothing fills. The flowers I laid there vanish as though they had melted away. In Suivant l'azur, written after the sudden death of her husband, Nathalie Léger finds something similar — that what loss brings forth is not an ending but a struggle against weariness, an attempt to set the course of time running again. Grief does not unfold in a dramatic moment. It takes place between the hours, in that expressionless flow of the everyday that opens after a sudden disappearance — like the remnants of a world that does not know why someone has gone. Cast a flower came out of this intermediate space, out of watching the repetition that both precedes and follows mourning. I take the color away. I take away the promise of eternity. What remains is the flower at the moment of being cast: molten metal falls, splashes, spreads and sets where it lands, and what sets there looks like a flower. Blooming and dispersing at once — the true form of a flower that could not be eternal.