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Hi listeners, I'm Jake Weber and I have a story I want to tell you.

A story about the memories we forget and the memories that find us.

So gather around and listen close.

I can hear them in the house. They're moving so slowly.

They think I won't hear them, but they're closed.

Whisper as they walk up to stairs.

There's a hand trailing along the wall now.

I can hear the skin of it catching at the peeling paint.

Soon they'll get to the attic. They'll know I'm here.

I have a feeling they already know. So this story, this recording, will have to be quick.

I hope you find this.

When I was seven, I lived in a tiny apartment at the edge of civilization,

where our small Colorado town met the foothills.

My mom, my dad and I, in dingy little apartment 12, and my best friend Ellie, just down the hall.

We became friends because I had the one thing she didn't.

A window that looked out on the empty yellow hills behind our complex.

The hills that rose into trees, that rose into mountains.

Except the hills weren't empty to me.

On the nearest hill, at the top, was a flat expanse of grass.

There I imagined a house.

...