There is a threshold — neither waking nor sleeping — where memory and dream press against each other until their edges blur and dissolve. This piece inhabits that liminal seam: the memory so fully felt it seems worn, lived-in, yours — a place your body insists it has stood, a feeling your chest is certain it has carried — until, like light shifting through a curtain, doubt enters without knocking. Was it real? Or did you only dream your way into it? The title does not answer. It hovers. It guesses. Where the first piece mourns what slips away in forgetting, this one unsettles something deeper — asking whether what we hold as memory was ever, truly, ours to remember.