The Currrent

There are houses you can’t leave — not because the door is locked, but because your past is still pacing the hallway.

In The Current, Penelope drifts through time like dust on light. Rooms rearrange themselves. Names disappear. The kettle clicks, untouched. She listens for voices in the pipes, writes words on receipts, and forgets to eat salt.

A story of stillness and small ruptures — of memory slipping through the walls, and a woman quietly narrating herself back into existence.

A story of disassociation, memory, and quiet reckonings