Every room in this gallery ends at the same wall. The journal's last surviving month is March 2007; the life pages run in name to 2009; then the capture record changes species. A profile_2010 shows the keeper returned once. After that the files belong to a different kind of site entirely: WordPress themes, plugin manifests, parked markup.

What the piece presented

The record's last act is a cast change. Where the house once served hand-named HTML, the later captures serve wp-content theme files, xmlrpc.php, feed/ endpoints and .well-known plugin manifests, the standard skeleton of a WordPress install on a domain someone else was keeping warm. A house built by hand was replaced by the generic scaffolding of a parked property.

What the record kept

Enough to date the ending honestly: personal content dense through 2007, a single 2010 profile, scattered later captures, then infrastructure files that have nothing to do with the house. The record cannot say the exact month the original site was taken down, because the archive only photographs what it visits; it can only show the last room still lit and the first one that was not.

What the ending was for

Nothing, and that is the point. The disappearance was not a designed piece; it is what every personal homepage eventually becomes when the keeping stops. This gallery exists because the captures were taken before the door closed for good.

How endings read in captures

The archive dates endings badly, and this piece says so plainly. Between the last lit room and the first scaffolding file there is a gap the record cannot fill: months, possibly a year, when the house may have stood unchanged or may already have been empty. The profile_2010 capture is the ambiguous one, a light left on or a last visit; the record cannot distinguish them.

What it can distinguish is the species change: hand-named HTML is the house; wp-content and xmlrpc.php are what replaced it. The gallery hangs the house.

What the scaffold means

The WordPress files in the late captures are not the house remodeled; they are a different structure on the same lot. wp-content/themes/rock-blog, wp-includes, xmlrpc.php: these are the bones of a default install, the thing that appears on a domain between owners, or after one. Nothing in them mentions the journal, the cats, or the aphorism editions.

The gallery ends its hanging here deliberately. A record of a disappearance is still a record, and the last honest label in the house is the one that says when the lights went out.

The gap the record keeps

The honest part of this piece is the gap. The archive cannot say when the last journal entry was read, when the door last opened, or whether the keeper watched the domain lapse or simply stopped. Captures photograph surfaces; the ending happened underneath.

What the record does preserve is the contrast that makes the loss legible: a directory full of named cats and hand-drawn titles, succeeded by wp-content. One of those was a house.

What is not shown

Why the keeping stopped, whether the files still exist on someone's disk, or whether the keeper ever meant to return. The last thing the archive kept was a door that no longer opened onto the house.