Once I set out on a journey back into my own past — but the past stayed where it was, and the place itself had already withdrawn. A sudden farewell from someone beloved made even that place, the one I might have returned to, disappear, leaving an emptiness I could not measure. I have translated the memory of that endless walking, sunk in grief, into a desolate landscape — one in which the ground beneath my feet seemed to give way. The space is covered with raw earth, gathered here and there into low mounds. Scattered across it lie objects — fragments of a body that has lost its owner. They are not so much empty husks as the anatomical debris of what once served a person as an extension of the self. Here Kafka's metamorphosis runs in reverse: it is no longer the human who becomes a creature; rather, what remains is the hollow shell of something reduced to a function and finally used up. Some fragments rise out of the earth, others sink back into it, lingering at the threshold (seuil) between the buried and the visible. Underfoot the earth and stone crack with each step — at once a remembrance of solitude and a proof of presence. In this topography every step becomes a physical inscription, and for a moment that trace rewrites the place that has vanished; the next step unwrites it again. It is writing under erasure — a script that carries the pressure of a meaning it can never hold still. A large window stands open onto living trees: neither partition nor mirror, but a passage through which time keeps flowing while the room stays still. The tension between the motionless earth within and the living world without is not redemption; it is the precise shape of grief — life goes on, even when we are not yet ready. A rhythm that permits no grief erases human time. Loss cannot be deleted like data or neatly archived; remorse and longing remain, and to distil them takes a time that resists every efficiency. In a present saturated with exhaustion and exploitation, this slow walking is itself a practice — a walking that empties the head and lets loss, for once, be what it is. Whoever enters is no longer a fixed observer but becomes a ghost: a being that moves freely through time, standing on the loss of the past while keeping the possibility of the future in view. Ghosts do not submit to physical separation. The moment visitors begin to wander this topography of absence, the field of empty fragments fills with living trajectories of movement. Ghostway is not a way back; it is the most honest passage we can find through loss — and the map of absence is completed only by those who walk it.