The house is a word of stone: it questions me through empty windows. It has a door, but promises no way out: it promises memory. I huddle inside it like someone returning to a street that no longer exists. Outside, casa scatters into a flock and chimes against the white; I do not know whether I say it or whether it is said to me, because here words have no owner: they glide like a dry murmur. Each time I say it —or it is said— time folds and opens, like a gutted instant. Inside: the old air, the lime, the crack, and this hand feeling the wall to know whether I am still here. Everything is now: the cold of the stone, the remains of an old ember in the chest, and a silence that speaks. I try the door with the faith of one who expects no way out; the lock gives: on the other side there is the same room, the same lime, the same white that chimes; only the position of my body changes, as if the house had moved around me. The house is not a place; it is the emptiness that holds me up, a wound that names me.