Images of gloomy and deteriorated environments, as well as objects left behind by unknown individuals, exhibit noises and flaws that make visible the discreet and incessant action of time on all things, invariably.

Papers scattered on the floor, a photograph fixed to the wall, pillows and blankets covered in dust, which once formed a bed. Pots that heated meals accompanied by bottles of drinks, now empty. Corridors free for air to pass through and doors open, seemingly to no one, create a great emptiness.

No one lives or exists immune to the passage of time. And nothing disappears completely. What exactly remains in each place and in each thing after people are gone? How can things hold so many memories of so many lives?

What's it like... to no longer be here?