Home... The smell of pine resin and wet stone in my mother's workshop, where the lacquer fumes made us lightheaded and the radio played static-filled ballads from decades before I was born. It's the exact weight of my father's hand resting on my shoulder while he examines a half-glazed vase, his thumb brushing the nape of my neck like a benediction. But home is also my friends' apartments at dawn, where the fridge hums off-key and our laughter sticks to the walls like condensation. It's the way some letters arrive smelling of bergamot and careless cigarette ash, each envelope a temporary shelter I can crawl inside. Most days, home is neither place nor person, but the fleeting certainty that for this single breath, you are wanted where you stand. The way light falls through my childhood bedroom window in late afternoon, golden and heavy as honey, telling me without words to stay. To stay just a little longer. I've spent years preserving the homes of others; century-old floorboards, the indentations on staircases from generations of footsteps, the ghost-shapes left where pictures once hung... Perhaps that's why I know this truth: home is whatever you keep coming back to, even when it's gone.