The objects and stories we collect, hoard, and treasure across migrations and generations become our witnesses. The landscape then looms as a record keeper which waits to unveil their information to anyone who asks. In Los Angeles, skyrocketing housing costs have driven many families to create multi-generational homes. This aggregation of family life into condensed lots has created an architectural landscape of homes that are built proudly; many of these homes display their wealth through the choice of fencing and garden decorations. Lots are divided, treasured, and distributed to the next sibling, cousin, aunt, grandmother, friend who needs it. Plans are made for what next addition will be made to the house. The fence is prioritized. It must be built. It must mark a divider between the street and the home. As the family grows, the fence is what we run to when a new member is added to our families. The family in blood and the chosen one merges. The fence literally becomes the portal for new beginnings. However, we often see the fence as a barrier; one that should not and cannot be crossed. The fence in archiving becomes what we must chase to transform. The fence, the stupid fucking wall, every mental barrier we as Salvadoreños put on our future is what must be undone. We must imagine our archives as an endless gap to fill with our joy. There are so many paths I could take with this project. But weaving softer, malleable, fences felt like home.