Sinopsis

There’s someone in there. The light is dim, but every now and then, you see a shadow passing by. The glass is translucent, or maybe dirty, or maybe it’s curtains, and in any case, the silhouette of someone is tinkering inside.
What are they doing? It’s hard to tell, but if you press your face to the window, you can make out some sort of memory collector.
But no, we all do that, with more or less quirks, with more or less involvement.
What they keep is tied to a sense of safety. They keep things that make them feel safe. And memories are one of those things, yes. But not because of the memory itself, rather the sense of safety it evokes:
that plastic cowboy, or that whistled melody, or that gesture that once was a caress.
What are they doing there? They’re spreading out a landscape made of all the things they had kept for so long. A landscape that becomes a wall.
It seems like they’re searching for a wide shot of all that material they had always seen from absolute closeness. So close it pierced the skin. So close they were looking at it from within.
It seems like they’re saying goodbye.