We didn't come here to photograph ruins.
We came because someone told us there were still houses here.
It took me a while to realize that I was still using words that no longer referred to anything.
Door.
Window.
Room.
The body didn't seem out of place.
The house did.
Every building is a temporary agreement between the ground and memory.
The sea never signed it.
I don't know whether she was carrying anything.
Perhaps only the idea that something can still be carried.
Perhaps only the need to keep going.
Places are not always abandoned.
Sometimes they simply stop recognizing us.
.
There are houses that look out to the sea.
And there are houses the sea has chosen to look back at.
I don't remember when it got dark.
I only remember that, at some point, I began to look at what remained.