From Brussels, where I live, I travel north looking for the traces of my family history. My parents, who were exiled in Sweden during the last military dictatorship in Argentina, left there their dreams of revolution which, forty years later, it is impossible for me to have before my eyes and experience as a spectator. Between the mist of time and cold, I leave Stockholm for the south, to the place where the Moheda refugee camp once stood, while family letters from the past interweave with discussions with my father about current politics and bygone ideals of revolution. During my journey, the places where my parents lived are tiny traces of what they once were. Perhaps they did not leave their dreams in these places where they lived. Perhaps the meaning of that past, and its future, remains to be constructed.