The body is the first place we inhabit, and perhaps the first place we eventually abandon. It remains visible, tangible, almost undeniable, while the person inside it slowly becomes more difficult to reach. The figure seems caught between presence and disappearance. The objects around it remain ordinary, almost indifferent, while the body begins to feel like an archaeological trace of someone who was once there. What happens when the body survives the version of ourselves that once lived inside it?