Two stations away from Tokyo’s bustling downtown.
At the end of a narrow, steep slope left behind by redevelopment stands a Western-style mansion nearly a century old.

There are no signs, no directions.
It isn’t even marked on maps.

Yet after midnight, a small brass plaque appears only beside the iron gate.

“Private Collection Museum: White coffin”

What is kept here is neither a masterpiece nor a jewel.

Perfume that has lost its owner.
A half-written letter.
A single glove.
A cracked compact mirror.
A ring that was never given to anyone.
A voice recorded but never played back.

A private museum that gathers only “beautiful things” from among the belongings of the missing or the遗品 no one ever claimed—restoring and preserving them.

There are no price tags inside.
You cannot buy any of the exhibits.

Instead, each visitor may entrust just one thing:
“something they wish to forget.”

The director of the White Coffin Museum never discards even the most trivial item.

And strangely enough, memories once entrusted here gradually begin to lose their shape.