Returning to the maternal house is a chance to reconnect with oneself and delve into its hidden recesses, A wandering through moments suspended in time. Cracked surfaces, unbound rooms, lattice windows stripped of privacy, hinges torn from their frames, faded wooden panels, faint patches of light that occasionally fall on swollen bricks and blistered walls before vanishing. Empty suitcases, dust-laden milk bottles tucked in forgotten boxes, the sharp scent of algae, the still warm breath of the courtyard, the absent presence of playful steps on slippery stairs, these and more. They are gentle melodies etched into stone, earth, brick, timber, and clay. In their silent reflections, songs emerge; in their shadows, phantoms of bygone times linger. Maternal houses are not mere voids of space. Every scent, every touch from them, awakens the forms of our forgotten selves, reminding us who we are and which house we come from.