Down here, in the liminal space between the foundation and the floorboards, the air is thick with what we try to bury. We drag our pasts down here—boxed up, taped shut, labeled with a false sense of finality. We toss our broken appliances, our outdated selves, the hobbies we abandoned, and the mistakes we want to forget into the darkness, assuming that out of sight means out of existence. We lock the door and walk back up into the light, convinced that we have dealt with the debris of our lives.