Imagine forgetting what "home" is supposed to feel like. Not all at once- but slowly... piece by piece. Until the word itself starts sounding unfamiliar. It's been twelve years since the world broke. Twelve years of moving through places that no longer belong to the living, surviving just enough to see another morning, and pretending that the past doesn't matter anymore. They don't talk about it. Not about where they came from. Not about who they used to be. Some things are easier to carry when they stay buried. But the strange thing about buried things is- they don't always stay that way. Sometimes it's a place. Sometimes a memory. Sometimes just a colour you can't look at the same way anymore. And suddenly, something starts to feel... wrong. Familiar. But wrong. In a world where letting go is the only way to survive- what happens when something inside you refuses to? And when it finally catches up to you... will you still recognize what you were trying to find?