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It smells like gasoline and faded photographs. It feels like someone went back to where time stood still - just to make sure nothing was left of it. The walls still know foreign voices, the neighbour smokes the same tobacco, and the old jacket on the hanger still holds the scent of sleepless nights. Everything seems familiar, but my hands no longer remember how to hold the past. It's fading away like smoke in the hallway, leaving only a faint taste of pain – the kind that doesn't kill you, but also doesn't allow you to live the same way you used to.