Last summer I wrote my grandmother a letter from every place I slept, and not once did I tell her who took the photographs.

The story so far

Leyla is twenty-seven, writes for small hotels on the Mediterranean and lives in Gràcia, Barcelona. Last summer she went down the coast from Barcelona to Camogli and wrote to her grandmother Lotte from every place she slept: the light, the lemons, the sea, the rooms. Someone photographed her all summer. She never wrote down who.

Now it is winter. Her brother wants to sell the family house on an Austrian lake, the man she is with now hasn't read a page, and her grandmother, who reads the crossings-out first, has a spring of her own she has never told anyone about.