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I do not know where it was, but it seemed to be a city in Asia, or Europe.
Anyway, this story is about one of the modern megalopolises in contemporary society.

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Writings once called essays are now stored in countless numbers inside a small light.

The person was on the way home.
Along the night pavement, flowers caught the faint light spilling from the city.
In the dark, they cast their colors, as if displaying a consciousness they never possessed in daylight.

As the person turned the key in the lock—an instant before the bronze door opened—the night air drifting inside the room stirred.

A house is not a place people remember. It is the house that remembers people.
The person recalled someone saying this.
The marigolds in the vase turned their faces this way with a look of mild surprise.

Opening the iPhone left on the desk, the person found someone’s diary in Notes.
There were no dates—only what seemed like fragments of days, laid out side by side.

“I dreamed of a house I did not know.”

The person had no memory of entering this text.
Nor any memory of having had the dream.
On the screen, the cursor vanished once, and new text appeared:

“A painting of strawberries, and tiles of white and black.”
“A black toothbrush, and yellow toothpaste.”
“Yellow macarons, and Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.”

The person could not understand why this description of their own house was written there.

“The person looked up.”

The person looked up.

This room was being remembered.
By whom, exactly, was it being remembered?

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The person did not know whose diary it was.
The person tried writing just a single line, to continue it:

“I think I know your house.”

The room was quiet.
Closing the eyes, the person heard the sound of running water somewhere—or perhaps it was a fragment of music heard somewhere before, hovering just out of reach.

After a moment, a reply appeared.
“I have come home to this house before, too.”

Watching closely, the person saw the cursor move again:
“I am in your house right now.”

The person looked around the room.
The furniture, the windows, the picture on the wall—nothing had changed.
The particles of sound that had sounded like running water were quietly taking shape; the person could feel them turning into music.

Suddenly, the room lights went out, and the light from the iPhone quietly faded.
From the pitch-black screen, a golden symbol of light broke free and hung alight in midair.

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The light brought to mind an Edison lamp seen in an antique shop.
The symbol bore the exact shape of the one on the bag the person carried that day.

Watching the light, the person felt a sudden, heavy drowsiness.
Lying down on the bed in the bedroom, eyes closed, the person sank toward the boundary between consciousness and the unconscious.

In the distance, the ring of an old rotary telephone—one that had no business being there—began to sound.
The body felt heavy as lead, refusing to move at will.

A moment later, music rose from the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
Faint enough to miss without listening closely, yet it had already taken on a clear, definite shape.

The bedroom door remained closed, yet there was the distinct sense of someone slipping quietly inside.
Barely opening the eyes, the person saw golden symbols of light entering through the window, glimmering like stars.
On the wall, the light cast a shadow that resembled the person.

The house said nothing.
That, I left in my diary.