In the United States, we would say “moved out of a house and into a new one.” Houses don’t move, houses stay fixed, increasing in value while the unvalued humans who inhabit them come and go like seasons. But right in that dark shrine to a dead queen, my heart sang with Shelley’s notion that houses travel with us, that they aren’t merely comprised of cladding, brick, and plumbing but are defined by the individuals inside them and the marrow of their years there, and that the soul of a house journeys with us when we move.
