As in M. R. James’ ghost stories, Joanna Hogg shows how memories gradually accrete in places—rooms, landscapes, countries—until those spaces buckle under the weight of meaning and become haunted by the past. When you return to these places, time slips out of joint and it’s not clear how many days or years pass in the same place or even when you are. You’re left haunted by the ghosts of feelings: an uncomfortable conversation, an awkward misunderstanding, a yearning to make another person happy in a way you never can, the slow-dripping sorrow of emotionally repressed Englishness.