There are places where memory behaves like weather.

It arrives without warning.
It stays longer than it should.
It ruins clean surfaces and makes them honest.

These pieces come from such weather.

A railway platform that remembers footsteps.
A window that collects afternoons.
A bridge that refuses to complete its crossing.

Nothing here tries to resolve itself.

Because some emotions are not meant to be solved—
only witnessed, briefly, before they disappear again.

If you read these pages slowly, you may notice something strange:
they begin to feel like they already belonged to you.

That is not an accident.

It is how unfinished things work.