Entering an abandoned house is crossing a silent threshold.

The interior does not offer itself—it resists, collapses, unravels. Each room carries the weight of time not as gentle memory, but as a force that insists, that marks, that erodes.

In this series, interiors become spaces of extreme exposure. Peeling walls, collapsing ceilings, and objects displaced from their original purpose reveal a place where abandonment is no longer absence, but an active presence. Time has not passed—it has remained.

Two bodies move through these spaces, identified by yellow coats. The color appears as a minimal gesture of life within a scene of decomposition. There is no heroic contrast, only the confirmation that something still breathes where everything else seems to give way.

The love story is not told directly. It unfolds through shared risk, through the decision to enter together, to remain within unstable structures. Love emerges here as an act of trust and endurance, not as refuge.

These images function as pages from an intimate diary. Each photograph records a state of suspension, a moment in which living bodies occupy spaces that have lost their function. The interior ceases to be shelter and becomes testimony.

In the encounter between collapsing structures and human presence, the series leaves a question unanswered:

What remains when even the walls begin to fall?