I'm Nilu, that's what my grandmother called me. I have long since left the years of my early youth behind, and I feel that I am beginning to forget more and more, which is why I decided to put my memories in order, until I remember them. So, out of sleep, on Friday, February 3, 2023, at around 5 am, I got to work. The momentum of the first thoughts was quickly interrupted by the phone alarm, but also by the fact that memories have an important characteristic. They don't come nicely structured into chapters or even chronologically. They gather like whirlwinds of leaves carried by the wind among people from here or far away, through places of now or of the past, through warm rains with laughing rags or on the contrary, through cold rains that penetrate your bones and freeze your breath. In a few fractions of a second, the rhythm of the leaves of a dear autumn starts the waltz of my thoughts, I hear the fluttering of time at my temples and I step timidly over the threshold into the true story. But I will try not to let myself be carried away by the storm of the mind, but I will give a somewhat chronological meaning to these memories. Everything written here is true. Or not. The facts happened and the characters lived what was written. Or not. But does it really matter what is true or not? In the end, any past reality becomes fiction even for the one who lived and remembers it. What remained in my mind are only fragments of images and fragments of sound wrapped in a volatile and heady aroma. Fact or fiction, the past built a breathing present.