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“Barcelona has always been a place you return to when you’re broken, though you don’t really know why. The streets are full of history—of loves that never were, of farewells and encounters still heavy in the air. The balconies watch you, the bars smell of vermouth from noon, and the sun creeps through the windows like a spy. Time here doesn’t heal anything, but it doesn’t rush you either. Everything moves slowly, like a long, hot breath.

It’s my first day in Budapest. The streets smell like history—like stones that have heard too much and still keep quiet. No one here bothers to hide the passing of time. They don’t cover it up. They don’t smooth it over. They let it be. Let it stay. Let it grow, like the mold on high ceilings or the cracks in old walls. And that’s beautiful. To see time as it is—imperfect, honest, inevitable. To see how time passes… and passes through us. It moves through us. It pulls us under. It leaves marks.

“When she leaves, the room is never the same. It looks untouched, but fire has passed through it. No visible ashes, yet everything inside—the walls, the bed, the silence—has been consumed by her memory.”