It was all his. Not that he wanted it, but all the same: it was his. His whole being had begun in that very place, now empty and full of memories. It was wrong. I could see the hurt and hesitation in his eyes as they pleaded for me to stop him. But he kept going like there was nothing before or behind him. It was just him. Standing in the doorway of some old place that he had sworn never to step foot in again.

Fate had different plans, though, and so his was the first footstep to be outlined in the dust; a signature of his possession of this place, of these memories and images. Neither of us spoke. It was almost as if the space was too sacred to be polluted with our unholy words and ministrations.

It was all his, and he didn’t want a single piece.