In Tehran, absence has a geography. Statues disappear, then bodies, then certainties themselves. In Inventaire des disparus, Poupeh Missaghi does not construct an investigation in the classical sense: she follows traces, measures voids, questions what memory preserves and what it abandons. The book announces its terrain right away: "I want to begin with the after: the after-shock, the after-strike, the after-world." The after, here, is never stable. It moves with those who remember, with those who tell stories, with the language that tries to retain what disappears. A woman walks through Tehran and searches for the statues beginning to disappear from public space in the spring of 2010, in the wake of the events of 2009. But very quickly, the missing bronzes lead to other absences: those of the dead and the missing. The documentary gesture cracks, becomes a meditation on transmission. "Why this insistence on commemorating? On remembering? On fighting against forgetting?" The question could be enough to summarize the endeavor, if the text had not precisely for principle to refuse summaries. Missaghi assembles fragments, lists, urban scenes, archives, dreams, reflections on writing. This montage is not a formal ornament: it follows a world where no version can claim to contain everything. The city itself becomes an unstable page. "The map is the text. The text is the map. The text is the city." The device finds its most beautiful evidence here: writing is not restoring what is missing, but drawing around the absence, accepting that the contours continue to move. This ambition requires constant attention. The narrative proceeds through repetitions, detours, questions left open. The translation by Yannicke Chupin preserves this tension between precision, fragmentation, and breath. The repetitions become rhythm, the breaks maintain uncertainty, the changes of perspective prevent any comfortable reading. Even the dreams, which refuse to offer a key: "They remain unreadable. They carry the secret." Missaghi therefore promises neither complete restoration nor consolation. Her book works differently: it prevents erasure from becoming a second disappearance. She knows that a list does not resurrect anyone, that a map is not a territory, that a sentence does not repair a body. But she also shows that naming, searching, returning, restarting already constitute a form of resistance. It is this that gives Inventaire des disparus its lasting strength: a literature that does not claim to fill the void, but refuses it silence.