Eva Ki confesses that she is capable of retaining the memories of many of her past lives: a life in Persia, in which, for a thousand and one nights, she told stories to her husband, King Sahriyar; life with her favorite mother, with whom she will suffer just thirteen years; life in Salem, in which she loved Elisabeth very much, who was hanged after being accused of witchcraft. At seventy-three years old (if we only count the years of this cycle), there are many memories that Eva Ki treasures from her previous lives. And if she has decided to publish them, it is not due to an act of mere vanity, but rather because of what we have pointed out at the beginning of this text: that if we want them not to forget us, we must populate the memory of our loved ones with memories. That if we long for ours not to disappear, we must remember them daily: perhaps evoke a trip together, a laugh a long time ago, a movie, a hangover, a birthday. Struggle so that those people we love and that we want to live forever do not vanish from our memory. That is exactly what Eva Ki does in this book. Although it may be nothing more than the delusions of an old woman who, above all things, knows the ancient art of inventing stories.
