In the summer of 2008, I spent a week cataloguing the contents of a boarded-up Victorian on Cedar Street in the town of Harwood, Oregon. The house had been sealed since 1972, and the family who owned it wanted everything cleared out before demolition. Most rooms were ordinary—layered wallpaper, mouse nests, a broken piano. But the bedroom on the third floor, the one with the door painted over from the outside, was different. The walls were covered in murals. Not landscapes or portraits—but hundreds of small, detailed paintings of people's faces, all looking at the bed. I recognized a few of them. The last page of the journal I found there had a single sentence, written in a child's careful hand: 'I have to finish before they forget me too.' This episode is about what it means to be remembered, and what it costs to be the one who does the remembering.

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