I’ve told the same story about myself at five years old a hundred times. I’m absolutely sure about it — like it’s a piece of real life stuck inside my head. Then suddenly it turns out: it never happened. There’s only a photo. Even my mom says — you don’t remember, you just saw it.

But the smell, the cold, the pattern on the glass in front of my eyes feel so real that even doubt gives up.

If memory can make up the past so vividly, then who’s really living all these lives we’ve lived?