At the moment of death my mother was next to Irene. But she nurtured a deep filial hatred toward her. I remember asking her if we could go in. No one can get in. I asked who lived there.
Nobody lives inside.
It's always empty. And it will always be. I now wonder if every time I passed in front of the house, I would feel a vibration. Because I thought it was normal. I have read, time and again, Uncle Jules's diary of the loss of the house.