“We go on living in the memory of those who love us”, writes Carlos Ruiz Zafón in The Shadow of the Wind. A bittersweet novel, steeped in stories of lives lived — but not always completely, and not always in the real world. Some of these lives were only imagined, longed for, waited on, and misunderstood, never fully brought into being. Death is inevitable; it is part of life itself. And yet, memory allows us to hold on to a promise that tastes of eternity. “Remember me, Daniel, even if only in secret, in a corner of your heart. Don’t let me disappear forever.” With these words, Nuria Monfort ends her letter to Daniel, aware that she has only hours left to live. And so she chooses to put her life down on paper — the life she decided to lead.

If I had to choose one thing — among the many beautiful things in this book — to carry with me, it would be this: the delicate ability to hold on and let go, both at once. Julián, Miquel, Nuria, Daniel. Each of them, in their own way, lives anchored to the past, treating it as a sentence, never quite able to let it go. Julián, especially, remains bound to his love for Penelope — an eternal bond that keeps him from truly moving on. He doesn’t know the truth, nor what became of the woman he loved. Their lives are threads woven into a shared tapestry. A vast, intricate design that connects souls seemingly far apart — but only in distance, never in depth. Daniel, at least, is given the chance to follow his love, to fight for clarity and confront his connection to the Aguilar family. The choice is his. And Julián hopes he won’t repeat his own mistakes. Hopes he’ll at least try — try to face what he cares about, what he believes in: love, and by extension, life itself. The kind of love that liberates and makes us free.

Speaking of love — and of love for life — I’m reminded of Sebastião Salgado and The Salt of the Earth. Salgado passed away last month, but his work, both as a photographer and as a human being, will remain eternal. The Salt of the Earth follows his journey through the harshest corners of the world: famine in Africa, the plight of refugees, the destruction of the Amazon. But it also tells the story of his own inner rebirth. A return to the land. To hope. A gaze turned toward forgotten places, or unknown ones, or those overwhelmed by suffering. And yet, each of these places holds a story. To bring them to light, to let them be seen, is to give them a voice. To let them be told.

And so I begin to understand that remembering is not just a nostalgic act — it’s a powerful responsibility. The stories we choose to preserve — in books, in images, in our minds — become invisible bridges between us and what once was. Between us and what still deserves to be seen, cherished, understood — and sometimes, gently let go. Consciously. Constructively. Salgado chose to portray pain in order to restore its dignity. Zafón showed us how even the quietest love can outlast time. In their own ways, both invite us to live with a gaze that does not forget.

And maybe that’s the deepest meaning of remembering: to make sure nothing passes in vain. To preserve. To give space. To give voice. And ultimately, to reach a kind of awareness — both kind and redemptive — that lies in the choice between holding on and letting go.