I wandered amidst the winding labyrinth of the city, feeling a sense of discomfort and allurement, with every alleyway serving as an invitation and every corner an enigma. As I ventured deeper into the city’s heart, the music grew louder, a haunting melody seeping into my bones.
Following the sound, drawn inexorably towards its source, I found myself standing in front of a series of buildings that towered above me like giants of a forgotten time. Their intricate carvings echoed a song that uttered the bittersweet ache of nostalgia.
I stepped inside, and the music enveloped me, wrapping me in its embrace. The interior was like no other, a breathtaking fusion of artistry and architecture. And in the centre of it all was a woman, her eyes closed as she sang.
Her voice echoed of yearning, a reminder of a lost love that lingered in the hearts of those who recalled it. As she finished her song, she turned to face me, her eyes gleaming with a knowingness that sent shivers down my spine.
“Welcome,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. “You have come a long way to find us.” I could only nod, my throat constricted with emotion.
“You are not from this city,” she continued, “but you are of this city. You carry its memory, the memory of a home you have lost.”
Standing there, looking into the woman’s eyes, I realised the veracity in her words, akin to a weight on my heart. But now, standing in this building, I felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted off my chest.
This other city was a part of me, like the blood that coursed through my veins. Tears threatened to overflow like a dam breaking under the weight of a rushing river. And at that moment, I knew I had found my way home.
The woman’s touch was warm and comforting, almost familiar, as she led me through the halls. I felt a sense of peace that pervaded this place, the gardens that seemed to stretch on forever, the fountains that swayed and sang.
As we stepped onto the balcony, the moon cast a soft glow over the sprawling city. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the gardens and the gentle rustling of the wind.
From there, the maze of alleys and buildings was a living, breathing entity; the streets were like veins, pulsing with the energy of the people who called this place home.
“This city was a part of you,” the woman murmured, her voice low and gentle. “It always had been. You just needed to find your way back to it.”
I nodded, tears coursing down my cheeks. And at that moment, I understood that this other city was more than just a dream or a figment of my imagination. It was a part of me, and I was a part of it, a reminder of all that was and all that could have been.
The Authortoria 