A secret room in a hidden house. No lights, just what sunlight filters in through the windows. Four lines of string strung across the room. Pictures, hanging from clothespins. Captions. Moments. Memories.

A polariod camera on a workbench.

Except there’s something not-quite-right about that camera. Something… off. There’s something about it that just seems out of place, wrong, somehow, perhaps. There’s something about it that is almost repulsive.

Except, once you pick it up – once you figure out how it works, what it does – chances are you’ll never put it down. No matter how dirty the strange plastic makes your hands feel.

Because, the thing is, you can step into the pictures taken with that old Polariod. And re-living memories always costs the ultimate price.