In 2014, Isabella Iero was in the final semester of her journalism degree in London. Graduation was approaching with the uncomfortable speed of something she had waited for years to reach and that, once it finally arrived, seemed too soon. The final project required an extensive field-reporting assignment, and Isabella had no difficulty choosing her subject. Memory. More specifically, the memories of elderly residents living in a nursing home in a small town a little over an hour by train from the capital. The idea was not only academic. Throughout her childhood, Isabella had accompanied her mother on weekly visits to her grandmother, who had spent the last years of her life in a place very similar to the one Isabella was about to visit. She remembered the always-soft carpet beneath her feet, the constant smell of tea, the distant sound of a television playing at low volume, and the stories — endless stories — that seemed to lead nowhere but always revealed something about the person telling them. Now, at twenty-three, she understood that those stories were the place itself. Her academic advisor, Damon Albarn, had been the only professor to show immediate enthusiasm for the project. At forty-one, he was known at the university for his almost quiet calm, his careful intelligence, and the rare ability to listen more than he spoke. When Isabella presented her proposal, he not only approved it — he asked to accompany her on the field research. The trip was scheduled for early March, when the English winter was beginning to dissolve into cold, damp days. On the morning of departure, the station was busy but not chaotic. People followed invisible routines, carrying coffee in paper cups and heavy bags. Isabella moved among them with light energy, holding a backpack filled with notebooks, a recorder, and a camera. Damon walked beside her at a slower pace, carrying only a small suitcase and a leather folder. Inside the train, the heat was dry and comfortable. Isabella sat by the window and spent most of the journey watching the landscape slowly change — buildings giving way to houses, houses giving way to fields, fields interrupted by small lines of bare trees. The motion of the train felt hypnotic. Isabella’s initial nervousness blended with a difficult-to-explain sense of familiarity, as if she were returning to a place she somehow knew, even though she had never been there before. When they stepped off at the small station, the silence was the first thing she noticed. There was none of London’s constant noise, only the soft wind and the distant sound of a car passing along the main road. The station was small, made of darkened brick, with a wooden bench beneath a narrow canopy. The air felt colder there. They walked along the main street following the directions Isabella had written down. The town had few shops — a bakery, a pharmacy, a small market — and low houses with simple gardens. Everything seemed slower, as if time moved differently there. The motel appeared after a bend in the road. It was a long, single-story building with doors lined up facing a worn asphalt parking lot. An old red sign blinked slowly even in the gray daylight. There was something slightly out of place about the structure, as though it had been transported from another country decades earlier. The reception area was small and dimly lit. The smell of strong coffee mixed with cleaning product filled the space. Behind the counter, a television played some indistinct program, casting a bluish light onto the walls. The check-in process was quick and quiet. Outside again, the open corridor exposed them to the cool afternoon air. The doors were identical, painted in a faded blue. The parking lot remained nearly empty, and the wind made a soft sound along the side of the building. Damon walked a few steps ahead and stopped in front of their room. For a moment, Isabella had the strange feeling that the trip was truly beginning there.