Sometimes, in the aftermath of an unexpected bereavement, a family will leave their departed loved one's bedroom unchanged for weeks, months, maybe even years. The preserved room serves as a walk-in memorial, a place to feel close to the departed (their beloved books heavy on the shelf, their smell soft on the pillow), to keep them in the present even as time shunts them ever further into the past. It's a way to wrest control back from fate's capriciousness: fortune may have taken this person from me, but I choose when to let them go.
The Finches, a family that came to America from Norway in 1937, have endured more unexpected bereavement than most. Tragedy has been so frequent a visitor to the Finches that they were once described as America's "most unfortunate family." In seven decades no fewer than ten Finches died in or near to the family home. In this way the house has become a warren of memorials: each of its bedrooms, studies and basements sit sealed in time, as if waiting for an occupant to return.
In 2016, one occupant does return: Edith Finch. Six years ago, believing theirs to be a localised curse confined to the house, Edith's mother scooped up what remained of her family and fled. The house has since stood empty. After inheriting the home, Edith, looking to confront or at very least face her family's sad past, sets about unpicking its various locks and secrets. "Whatever's wrong with this family," she says, soon after she crawls through a kitchen cat flap to gain entry, "goes back a long way."
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