"You are no longer alone. Presences do not announce themselves: they creep in. The breath of the room envelops you, and what was invisible now passes through you. There is no return: only the anticipation of what is to come."

"You are no longer alone. Presences do not announce themselves: they seep in. The room's breath surrounds you, and what was once unseen now cuts through you. There is no return-only the waiting for what comes next."

The air is thick, as if it holds a secret that

Dare not fall to the ground.

Light filters in oblique cuts, revealing dust

Suspended, restless little constellations.

There is a smell that you do not recognize, but that the body

seems to remember better than you do.

The walls are getting closer, or you are the one retreating.

Every sound is slowed down, every beat closer,

As if it wanted to be heard from inside the bones.

And then the tremor: subtle, invisible to the eyes but

fierce under the skin.

You don't know where it comes from or what it responds to.

But in that moment you realize it is not fear:

Is the threshold of something that is calling to you.

There is a smell that has no name, but it knows you. It touches you like an invisible hand and takes you back to where you thought you would never return.

No one had entered yet.

But the skin already knew.

That something was going to happen.

In that room you had never dared to mention.

The body retains everything that the mind pretends to forget. The skin also has memory.

The skin does not forget.

Even what you didn't say...

she holds him back.

There are rooms that cannot be opened with words.

But with a smell, a beat, a silence.

That is where the body remembers.

Even what the mind has forgotten.

Some rooms don't open with words.

But with a scent, a heartbeat, a silence.

That's where the body remembers.

Even what the mind has forgotten.

A smell, a beat, a silence that recognizes you.

The body knows. The rooms open.

And you are already in.