The street has a century-old tree that, in spring, exudes a fragrant aroma. It is one of the central streets of Parede, in Cascais, the artery where everything happens. The uncharacteristic, white building denotes a hint of modernity in its simple look and straight lines. One day all this was new and the tree was narrow and small. From his apartment, António Borges Coelho hears the train passing, every 20 minutes, day after day. He, a historian who has already investigated the occupation and Muslim heritage of the peninsula, the Inquisition and Portuguese expansion, the history of the country since its formation, has never written about himself, about the 93 years from which he has watched us, with the usual good will and sympathy, but not without some tiredness. In this house invaded by books, photographs and paintings, where he now lives alone, Borges Coelho lived with Isaura Silva. They were married for 60 years, had a daughter. Theirs was a love story that, like all, has an epic, outsized side; who fell, as they all do, into a certain unreality, memory creating a matte coating over things. However, if all stories deserve to be told, that of António and Isaura is one that a good book should immortalize. Because it was almost impossible, almost a mirage.