I followed the White Rabbit not because I was lost,
but because something inside me was left unnamed.

Down the corridor of memory, time begins to fold.
Clocks turn backwards. Rooms grow softer.
Objects learn to speak in whispers.

This is not a place of events,
but of what was never shown.

Here, childhood returns in fragments,
half dream, half recollection.
A landscape where familiar things feel strange again,
and the unseen finally asks to be noticed.

The White Rabbit waits.

“Are you lost?”

No. I am learning how to return.

Memory is not a place behind me.
It is a room I enter differently each time.
At last, Ι hold the key.

“Then you already know the way.”