My thoughts fly far, far away, to my childhood home, to my universe closed in time, to our room where several generations grew up, each with their own lives and stories. I look at our room, back home after many years, and it's as if time has stopped here, all things have remained like this for decades, even though my people left a long time ago, only now they are dusty and from one place to another you can still see every cobweb that has remained the witness of the passage of so many generations.
I look at myself in the old mirror behind the door, made of wood, and I think of all those who looked at themselves there before me and whom I did not get to know, except through stories and memories. I look through the windows of our room, which are now dusty, but which are like a portal to the past, which teleports me directly to our yard full of birds and animals, when I was just a child. And my thoughts fly to the trees planted by me and my grandfather in the yard, which are filled with white flowers every spring.
Time has passed, but the memories of many generations who spent their childhood in our little room have remained. And it was up to me, the youngest of the family, to tell them the story.
