On that June morning, I woke up screaming at first light. My heart pounding in my chest as if my very soul was trying to escape. My father hurried into my room and held me in his arms trying to calm me.
‘I can’t remember her face. I can’t remember Mummy’s face,’ I muttered, breathless.
My father held me tight.
‘Don’t worry, Daniel. I’ll remember for both of us.’ (Zafon, 2001, p.2).
‘Don’t you have a photograph of her?’
‘I’ve never wanted to look for them,’ I said.
… ‘Because I’m afraid. I’m afraid of looking at a photograph of my mother and discovering that she’s a stranger. You probably think that’s nonsense.’ (Zafon, 2001, p. 235)