Valeria Garza

Children's photos are small memories, fragmented, washed away by time. Bright and black-and-white pictures scattered on the bed.

Here, a moody little copy of you is hysterically banging his fists on the asphalt next to a dinosaur-shaped trampoline, not wanting to leave the amusement park. And in this picture, the same girl is proudly showing off her new fluffy dress against the background of flags with the inscription "Happy birthday!".

The third photo instantly draws a satisfied smile on your face: wrapped in a windbreaker and a warm scarf, you are standing next to a dark-skinned, dark-haired girl. She looks a little older than you, humbly, frowning, holds out a lollipop in your outstretched hands.

"My mom said that no boy will pay attention to you because of your princess attitude! She says you're moody!" — the image of the dark-skinned girl in your head echoes.

"Valeria!" you call, the memories make your smile stretch wider, and you let out a quiet laugh.

"Yes, Princess?" a tanned, dark-skinned and toned figure of a woman appears in the doorway, a child's copy of which looks at you from a faded photograph.