Twenty minutes later, the door opened again.

Now I open the door for others. I watch them forget. And every night, I sit on this porch and try to remember why I ever wanted to forget in the first place.

“Can you tell me your name?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

I waited on the porch, rocking in a chair that hadn’t existed before I sat down. The night was quiet. No cars. No dogs. Even the wind seemed to veer around Needless Street, as if afraid of catching something.

I know because I was once a guest.

But the house is kind. It doesn't let me.