In the first nightmares I can remember, my mother would disappear. Meanwhile, it wasn’t in dreams that my father disappeared. He spent most of his time at work and was hardly ever at home, and as a result his absences felt normal. My mother’s absences meant something else. In the nightmares, I’d be following my mother’s voice – running through a forest, down endless staircases, searching a square; I followed her voice, but it grew fainter and fainter until I could no longer hear it. Shouting for my mother woke me up more than once. I’d go and peer round the door to my parents’ bedroom to make sure she was still there. If she wasn’t, I’d ask my father questions until he managed to calm me down. As well as a favourite bird, the other thing I share with Proust is this dependence on our mothers. Mothers equally loving, pretty, quick-witted. I think I’ve just made my Proust costume.

The day after the accident – that is, when I’d opened my eyes and was beginning the recovery process – my mother had a diabetic attack. Like when a burnt-out office-worker succumbs to the flu as soon as his holidays begin. My father came in to reassure me: ‘The doctor says it’s normal, it was the shock, but it’s not serious, darling. She’ll stabilise again soon, you’ll see.’

So the journey to the bottom of the notebook is also the journey to the bottom of loss. Being here makes me see Jonás’ loss differently. Being in this apartment has changed my point of view, as if I’d shifted a few centimetres to look at Jonás’ loss from another angle. The third person is sometimes a place you have to travel to.