You’re walking through a dense forest. You’re met with a large, empty cottage. Its illusive and welcoming brown wooden door invites you in. As you open the door you enter a home, one you feel you’ve been in before, a home that has been loved and developed for years. Resting on the seat of a plush, fabric sofa is a book. You get closer to inspect this book. You lift the book from off the seat and see that, beneath the dust, it reads: ‘My Entire Life in Pictures’. You brush and blow the dust off the cover; the rays of light peering through the blinds form a spotlight as the dust moves in the air. You rest the book on your lap and watch the dust at first you admire as it dances in the light but you notice that it is chaotic and frantic. It reminds you of fights, tears and unhappiness. The dust doesn’t seem to stop fighting in the air. It’s relentless. But you must watch. You must keep watching to see that it will stop. It finally slows. It calms. And the dust eventually falls to the ground, finding a new position and a new place to settle. You open the first page of the book and read ‘This photo journal belongs to your name’. You smile and put the book down.