Letters that were never sent

Letters that were never sent sometimes find their way back home — not in words, but in shape, texture, and the warm grain of memory on film. They return quietly, without ceremony, hidden in the way light falls across an old wooden floor, or in the muted colors of a faded photograph.

The house knows how to keep them safe: in tapes filled with silence, where forgotten voices still hum between the lines; in old film photographs, where time stands still and gazes back at us; in the folded corners of forgotten pages, where someone’s hurried hand once left a trace of feeling too heavy to be spoken.

Memory lives not only in what was said, but in what was kept unsaid — in textures, in breath, in spaces between moments. This is art — not creating noise, but learning to listen to what silence has to say. Listening to the quiet ways memory asks to be remembered.

At Giraffe Home, since 2020, we have been gathering these fragile echoes, shaping them into something tangible — something that feels like coming home.