This is less of a novel in the conventional sense and more of a philosophical meditation on grief, memory, and identity. Rather than offering a plot in the traditional sense, the book unfolds as a series of glimpses into the narrator’s recollections, fragmentary and dreamlike, resisting narrative closure. ✔️I appreciated the metafictional play: the narrator is both a character and a kind of surrogate for the author, blurring the boundary between fiction and lived experience. Serre also employs a number of interesting literary devices, particularly in the way she destabilizes narrative authority and engages the reader in an almost complicit relationship with the text. The prose is beautiful, elegant and often poetic. But at times, too lyrical for my taste. The tone throughout is somber and introspective, bordering on bleak. ❌ This is not a book to read lightly. It carries the emotional weight of mourning and psychological instability, which made it, at times, difficult to get through. Not due to quality, but because of its heaviness. I’d describe it as a philosophical novel that poses more questions than it answers. It’s a reflective read, but one that may not resonate with readers looking for a strong plot or resolution. Personally, I found myself craving a more traditional narrative arc by the end. That said, I can recognize the literary merit and emotional honesty of it.