Once I set out on the way back into my past — but the past stayed where it was, while the place itself had already withdrawn. The sudden parting from someone I loved made even that place, the one I could have returned to, disappear, and left an immeasurable emptiness behind. The memory of that endless walking, sunk deep in grief, I translated into a devastated landscape — a landscape in which the world seemed to give way beneath my feet. The room is covered with raw earth that heaps itself here and there into small mounds. Scattered across it lie objects — bodiless husks, as though some creature, still carrying the warmth of the earth inside it, had shed its skin and walked away. Some rise up out of the earth, others draw back into it. They linger at the threshold between the buried and the visible. The crunch of earth and stone under the visitors' steps is at once a remembrance of loneliness and a proof of existence — every step leaves a trace, and for a moment that trace rewrites the vanished place. The large window opens onto living trees. It stands open. This opening is neither a mere partition nor a simple mirror: it is a passage through which time keeps flowing, even when the room stands still. The tension between the unmoving earth inside and the living world outside is not a redemption — it is the exact shape of grief: life goes on, even when we are not yet ready.