A man attempts to find his way back to a house he once built. This memory palace is a haunted structure – a route walked again and again, until the walking and the remembering become the same thing. It requires maintenance. It does not forgive neglect.

Somewhere inside, in a room at the end of a long hallway, something was left waiting. Altered, probably. Barely legible. But present in the way that only lost things are.

There are only so many times one can return before returning becomes indistinguishable from undoing. Memory, too, erodes under observation. Yet we continue to walk its corridors, listening for what remains. What if the most loving thing you can do for a memory is to stop asking it to remember you back?

“These memories are starting to feel like weather. They pass through space and leave only a different light behind. Maybe that’s the only thing that was left waiting for me. Not an outline or a shape, but the way the air learned to hold you.

Tracing your steps does not find me a way forward, it is only a slow measure of how far your shadow has moved with the light. The more often I return, the less certain everything becomes. Like I’m tracing the same drawing over and over again. At first the lines grow clearer. But eventually, the paper begins to tear.”