At the break of dawn, the waters of Lake Volta stretch wide and still, catching the first light like a mirror.

In a small wooden boat, a boy sits alone, his silhouette fragile against the vastness. His small boat barely leaving a trace. The soft lapping of water against wood becomes his lullaby; the pull of the net, his only anchor. He does not speak — the silence has long since wrapped itself around him.

Each morning, a thread of life pulled thin against the golden horizon. Yet for him, it is not peace he finds here, but a weight he cannot name. His small hands, calloused too young, move with practiced urgency, without complaint. There is no school bell waiting, no mother’s arms comforting him at home.

Somewhere far from here, his family wakes too. Somewhere far from here, he was given away. Traded under promises of a better life he cannot understand. Only that he must dive into the deep, untangle the nets, carry the weight of a promise he never made. A childhood dissolving into the mist, unnoticed, unclaimed.

Through this project, I step closer — not to disrupt the stillness, but to listen to his silence. Closer to the fragile line between childhood and survival. "Closer" is not just proximity — it is the act of seeing, feeling, refusing to look away. Seeing the boy not as a shadow on the water, but as a soul adrift. Carrying his and all the other voices across the water, across the world, until no child is left unseen.