5 echoes one city, a love that slipped between what was said
and what stayed silent. Some stories are loud.
This one lingers. This is the Echo Between Worlds
Part 1. What remains after the tram
doesn't stop here anymore, but I do.
Every night, same time, same silence.
I sit on the stone bench where we first said nothing, where
your hand brushed mine by accident or on purpose.
I never asked. You said Lisbon is a city that
remembers too much. I didn't answer, but I remember
that the tiles cracked the day you left.
The lights flickered like they knew.
Even the sea pulled back a tide that refused to return.
I talked to you here, not out loud, but the kind of talking
where every breath is a name and every name is yours.
Somewhere in this city, the hallway still echoes your
footsteps. Somewhere a cafe keeps your
table open. Somewhere I still turn toward
the light, even though I know the light doesn't wait.
If you ever waited for someone who never came back, you already
know what the next echo sounds like.
We were in the same room once. You were brushing sugar off a
table. I was watching your hands like
they were telling me how to stay.
The coffee had gone cold. We drink it anyway.
And then nothing broke. Nothing burned, no goodbye.
Just the door clicking shut like it had always done.
But now when I speak, there's a pause before the silence, A
hesitation like a voice trying to reply from the other side of
a mirror. Would you turn around or keep
walking? Maybe I'm the glass.
Maybe you were the hand and this is the echo of something that
never happened but keeps repeating like it did.
Some memories never happened, and some places were never on
the map. There's a hill in Lisbon where
the bells don't reach. The tourists walk past it.
The maps forget it. But we knew, you said it felt
like an island suspended in someone else's dream.
We kissed there once, lips pressed like they were trying to
memorize the shape of the other. I don't remember the day, only
the heat of your hand and the silence after.
Even the birds didn't speak. Even the wind seemed to pass.
That street doesn't have a name, or if it does, it isn't 1 I ever
remembered. I walked there again tonight.
My footsteps didn't echo. Maybe that's what it means to
forget. Or maybe it's what it means to
be remembered only by shadows. Rain remembers things we pretend
we've left behind. It rained the day I stopped
looking for you. Not the romantic drizzle that
justifies a kiss. No, the kind of rain that soaks
all the way through until the only thing left to hide is your
voice. I passed your building.
I timed it. The six O 4 tram had just gone
by. I knew it because the tracks
were still humming, like something had just left me
behind. The cafe downstairs had new
flowers. I hated that.
I stood in the doorway, not knocking, not moving, just
letting the rain do what I couldn't.
Wash it all. Clean some rooms, forget, some
refuse to. The moment you leave, they
rearrange themselves, pull new light across the floor, close
over what was there but not mine.
It still holds your shadow against the wall, still curves
the air around your name like it's afraid I'll stop saying it.
I moved the furniture I threw away the cup you always used.
The chipped 1 was the gold rim. Still, every time I reach for
something, I expect to find you already holding it.
Once I lit a candle too close to your side of the bed, the flame
flickered so suddenly I whispered sorry without
thinking. No one was there, the air
answered. That's what it's like now.
Not haunted, just full. Full of all the things we didn't
get to finish. Maybe the room is waiting.
Maybe I am too, Lisbon remembers.
Even when we try not to. If this echo found you, let it
resonate. Leave a comment what still
echoes for you if you felt something like subscribe.
It helps keep the story alive. You've been listening to the
echo between words. Thank you very much.
You're part of this now.