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I knew then that I would devote every minute we had left together to making her happy, to repairing the pain I had caused her and returning to her wh...more

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Now he knew that any memories he might cherish during the last years of his life would be only fictions from a biography he'd never lived.

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Aryami Bose's home had been closed up for years, inhabited only by books and paintings, but the spectre of thousands of memories imprisoned between it...more

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Remember me, even if it's only in a corner and secretly. Don't let me go.

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I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time. It was the early summer of 1945, and we walked throu...more

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I handed the photo back to her. The caretaker gazed at it as if it were a lucky charm, a return ticket to her youth.

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I could tell you it's the heart, but what is really killing him is loneliness. Memories are worse than bullets.