At the graveyard past the meadows of Salem, amidst the broken gravestones and drooping willow trees, a man strolls along a path every day. Nobody knows him or whatever he came here for, and he knows nobody - not even himself. Past the narrow path, he looks down to each crumbling slab of rock, at the worn names and chiselled last words from people whose faces he's never known. His clothes are ragged just as his memories are shattered, and sometimes he imagines himself lying in the graveyard, under a different face, under a different name that wasn't written on him.