You remember the childhood house in watercolor, the edges running, a room that may have been blue. Ask for the facts and they come back soft: who was in the kitchen, who left, who was there in body but somewhere else in attention. You were born with Neptune in the fourth house, the soul's kitchen, the ancestral pulse under the floorboards, so the ground you came from never quite set hard. Other people can point to where they are from. You point to a feeling, a smell of something cooking, a longing for a home that may not have existed exactly the way you keep it. You can stay there too long, polishing the missing thing until your own present rooms stay half-empty by comparison. What pulls you back out is plain and physical: a key that is yours, a rhythm in the kitchen, a door that actually closes at night. The home you make as an adult can come out clearer than the one you came from. Inheriting the fog does not oblige you to keep it.