It might be the place where memories reside, until they fade away. Where physics holds no sway, and tradition and nostalgia govern every interaction. It might be a place where things are just as you remember them, rather than how they actually were.
It might be very difficult to visit, but then again, it might be very easy. It might be a gilded trap — warm and welcoming, but who's truly better off dwelling in the past?
The obsolete — or victims of retroactive continuity — would dwell there, though, the ones who have not been rescued and soon will be forgotten. It might be the only place in which they could be found. Backward would be a haven for lost things, so long as they are yet remembered.
It might have no firm boundaries, just a slow, constant crumbling away at its edges, as time erodes old memories. Details that are bright and vivid near its heart might have faded into nonexistence even before the thing itself reaches this encroaching edge.
It might constantly grow, if the influx of new memories outpaced the encroaching obliviation of old ones.
Or does it?