A closeted woman enters a hillside open house where infidelity, resentment, fertility panic, and self-erasure have each been preserved in perfect taste. At the end of the tour, the house offers her a room of her own and a life that would ask almost nothing of her except silence.

In this California horror story about manufactured intimacy, a woman falls into a connection so smooth it seems to bypass choice entirely. But as the relationship deepens and her own body starts paying the cost, she begins to understand that some forms of care are really just consumption with better manners.

After giving away the red velvet couch she shared with her ex, a woman finds that the breakup hasn’t left with it. As Los Angeles begins to pulse with haunted signals, queer longing, and objects soaked in old ache, she realizes some things don’t hold memories, they transmit them.