The ruin is both an imprint of the past and a substance of the present. It is not limited to what it has lost; it carries within it the promise of a possible future. Ancient remains intersect with fragments of everyday contemporary life, a broken column standing beside a crushed can. A fertile tension emerges, a desacralised memory where eras overlap without fixed order or hierarchy. This is not about restoring an idealised past, but about composing, from the remnants, new forms, new narratives. What does a ruin tell us? What memory does it carry? And what does it reveal about our present? It holds an invisible, almost alchemical charge. What shines today may become tomorrow a silent trace, a fragment of a vanished world. The ruin resists the pace of contemporary time, it demands a slowing down, a careful, contemplative gaze. Some ruins bear the direct marks of violent or political acts, others crumble slowly, quietly, through simple neglect. But all speak of fragility, of passage, and of matter’s capacity to be reborn anew.