Corners of the house are where the memories lurk. The piano course book hangs together by force of will, the pages having long since attempted to go their separate ways. Chewed by cat and by dog, thrown around by boys, but now, left behind. And yet, further back, a more distant memory. A violin book. No one in the house has screeched a violin in anger for two years. But the coursebook remains. The mask, though. The mask is from a much earlier time. Another life. Before children. A long weekend in Venice. And now it sits looking on, amused at the life that passes before it.