A woman stands at the edge of a memory, not inside it, but not far from it either. The curtain that falls between both panels marks the boundary between the present and the past, and she has chosen to stay on this side of it. She is still. The golden light that touches her belongs to the memory she is gazing into, warm and familiar, something that once felt like home. On the other side, an arched doorway and a staircase wait in golden stillness. It is the kind of place you feel you have walked through before but cannot quite name, a fragment of something dreamed rather than simply remembered. The warm pinks and golds preserve it exactly as it was, untouched by everything that came after. Between them, a curtain. Not a wall, not a locked door, but something you could step through if you chose to. And yet she does not step through. She simply looks, because returning to them fully, even in the mind, feels like too much.