Imagined lives, ordinary days. None of these are real people. All of them are recoverable from the kinds of traces a contemporary life already leaves behind.
The point is not the people. The point is the form.
A Tuesday, in and out
Belfast · by Ren. A morning that started before the alarm; a kettle Niamh had set the night before; the long version of a Tuesday.
A Tuesday in Linz
A parent's morning, the school run by foot, three voice notes between 9 and 11:30, dinner with the family. "He laughed at something I didn't catch."
A Sunday in Lisbon
A long unplanned walk, 11,408 steps, three songs on repeat, a voice note about whether to stay another month. No decision.
A Wednesday at home
The kind of day this is mostly for. Fog at 7:32, the dog, the crossword, a four-minute voice note about a mother.
Each of these days is a study in what retrography can preserve. They are not extraordinary. They contain no milestones — no births, no deaths, no announcements. They are exactly the kind of day that, six months from now, will not be remembered if no one helps you remember it.
The argument is not that these days are important because they were happy, or because they were sad. The argument is that they were lived. That is enough.
Retrography is the practice of not losing them.