Lola is eleven years old, she lives in France and she writes me letters. She recounts her expeditions in the woods, she draws maps of an imaginary world, she tells me about her nine cabins. I am also eleven years old and have a big cabin in the ruins of a marble factory in a small town in Switzerland. Little by little, Lola’s letters take another turn. Her fantastic stories are replaced by the account of her failed suicides and her attempts to run away. One day, Lola disappears. From her wandering, I will only have distant echoes, then nothing.