During February and March of 2026, two works were stolen from my exhibition in Saskatoon. I tried to retrace the thief's steps, imagining what compelled them to take these particular objects: journal pages I had kept since moving to Canada, and a resin replica of the key to my childhood home.  The theft made little sense. The journals were written entirely in my mother tongue, Farsi. They possessed almost no monetary value, yet contained years of observations, griefs, anxieties, and ordinary routines. The key was fragile and entirely dysfunctional, carrying meaning almost exclusively for me. What door were they hoping to unlock?  Suddenly, a portion of my past lay beyond my reach. Years of memories disappeared; alongside a key I could no longer hold. The theft felt disproportionate to the objects themselves. I could not stop relating it to what was unfolding back home. It seemed as though everything and everyone were participating in the same process: the removal of traces.