I took out the white book containing the dried rose. I began writing Shahla's memoirs, from the moment my feet touched this land I loved, until the palace of imagination collapsed, with strands of my black hair falling on my room's floor. Without feeling sadness or regret, I began by greeting Zafarana, my mother, the owner of the book, who entrusted it to me kindly, without mentioning that it was a memoir or a book for returning when grand structures crumble. I began by greeting my mother as if I were writing a letter. I remembered that I hadn't written letters to my mother in over six months, and I don't know if my letters, which I send to the capital in my country and are then passed by hand from one person to another, how many of them reached my mother. I started writing Shahla's memoirs, so that one day they would reach my mother's hands.