I still remember the morning my father introduced me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. It was the early days of the summer of 1945, and we were walking through the streets of a Barcelona trapped under ash-laden skies, with a vaporous sun spreading over the rambla de Santa Monica like a garland of liquid copper.
"Daniel, what you will see today must not be told to anyone," my father said. "Not even to your friend Toms. No one."
"Not even to Mom?" I asked in a whisper.
My father sighed, retreating behind the pained smile that followed him like a shadow in life.
"Of course," he replied with his head bowed. "We have no secrets from her. You can tell her everything."
("The Shadow of the Wind" - Carlos Ruiz Zafón)
Adiòs