A house is never made only of walls: among its old furniture and repeated silences, there is an almost imperceptible weight, impossible to remove. In this book, I inhabit discomfort as one tends to a discreet inheritance — a subtle, persistent unease that weaves through days and makes the body a territory of endurance and surrender.

The gentle pain that never screams becomes an invisible thread stitching together memories, habits, automatic gestures, and dense silences.

It's through this patient coexistence with suffering that I discover — between the longing for relief and the fear of emptiness — the possibility of accepting, without heroism, everyday fragility.
Each page is a long pause, a contained breath, an attempt to recognize, within what weighs me down, the chance to keep existing.

This book offers neither cure nor quick comfort: it is, instead, an invitation to tenderness with one's own limits, to listen to what cannot be expelled, to welcome everything that, even in pain, saves us from vanishing completely.