These illustrations are part of a never-completed book we all dream of publishing as our own. The story still flows through my mind, never forming a river but a mist, a fog, without outlines. They remain faded, Polaroid-like moods, memory fragments. A visual diary of an imaginary childhood, where everything is possible: your best friend can be a wolf, and you have all the alchemist’s talent to create a serum that makes plants able to talk.