Piranesi has always lived in the House; or, for as long as he can remember.
Day after day, Piranesi records in his notebooks with precision and carefulness the House's endless halls, their great and strange statues, the ebb and flow of the tides within its walls. He speaks to the birds; and brings tributes of food and waterlilies to the House's Dead. Once in a while, he sees his friend the Other. But mostly, he is alone.
Then messages begin to appear, scratched out in chalk and spelled out in pebbles. A new person has come to the House, and there is something they are trying to tell Piranesi.
But another story is unfolding, within the pages of Piranesi's own journal. A story written in his own hand, that he cannot remember writing; a story of a group of strangers, in an unfamiliar world.
