In the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the very fabric of this space, a history that cannot be erased. Some of it stored as memories; individual, collective, known and unknown; some as photos; yet others as bumps, stains and marks, each one attached to a moment.
That history stopped in one sense at one moment – the moment home became just a number. And a reminder of things both happy and painful. Yet the moment after that one started a new history. A new set of actions and memories and living. For that we are glad.
For the rest it is almost too painful to bear.