Matilda has been stuck in a memory loop, replaying the same moments over and over again. But this blissful act of remembering quickly turns into a compulsion, leaving only distorted images of her beloved memories. Her attempt to break out of this cycle seems successful. But the question arises, can one ever really escape nostalgia? Where do we put all these memories and versions of us that we'll never life through again but await us at the next corner we pass?