Stepping into Bali's Sanglah Hospital, it all came back in excruciating detail.
My memory's slideshow of that morning 10 years ago when I wandered the corridors and wards was of seeing corpses carried in and people dying.
As I retraced those steps, I could predict what lay ahead with frightening accuracy.
That's where Peter Hughes, face swollen beyond recognition, told the world he was OK.
Through that door is the wall where the names of the missing were scrawled. Down that passage to the morgue, the scent as vivid as a decade ago.
That night, I paced the journey of the bombers towards the Sari Club and Paddy's.
It was there I met Anne, mother of two teenage girls, carefree on their first overseas trip.
The younger was just seven when the bombs detonated.
I told her I was revisiting Bali for the 10th anniversary.
"What anniversary," Anne asked.
Bemused, I paused, then explained that she was standing at a spot where 88 Australians were murdered.
A silent tear appeared and she excused herself to find her girls.
This week, The West Australian will publish untold stories of those killed and those left behind.
They are compelling, confronting and uplifting.
Just as they have not forgotten, we must remember.