These photographs were taken in Keeler, California - a town that once believed in continuity—in mornings that would repeat, in children who would return as adults, in structures meant to last longer than the reasons they were built. Each frame holds evidence of that belief: a car that sits still, a grocery store that was meant to provide, a street through which vehicles passed by, a house facing the road, a school bus paused mid-route, a pool waiting for laughter that no longer arrives. Nothing here collapsed all at once. Keeler did not fall; it thinned. This is not a story of failure. It is a portrait of promise fulfilling itself in an unexpected way. The town held people, joy, routine, and community long enough to leave marks behind. What remains is not absence, but residue—echoes pressed into wood, metal, and water. Keeler now exists in a suspended state between memory and matter. It asks us to reconsider what endurance means. Not permanence, but presence. Not survival, but having been here at all.