words requiem.

I arrived in that city without knowing how. There were no signs, no terminal, no greeting other than the damp metallic smell that clung to the air. The sky was gray-blue, like a computer screen that had forgotten how to show an image. When I stepped off the bus—or perhaps it was a train, I couldn’t tell—I realized there was no vehicle behind me at all, as if I were the only passenger who’d crossed over from another world. The streets were empty, but not dead. A soft hum lingered, like a buried machine continuing its labor long after its purpose had been lost. In the distance, buildings stood tall, yet their shapes flickered, changing each time I looked away. The number of windows never stayed the same. I started walking with no direction. My shoes echoed against the pavement, but the echoes didn’t match my pace—one step from me, two from the air, as if someone else were imitating me from a few seconds behind. At the first corner stood a small café with frosted glass doors. The lette...

I don’t know when this room stopped changing. Its walls remain white—white in the way memories are forced clean. In the corner stands a plastic chair missing one leg , leaning like someone who has waited too long and finally surrendered to imbalance. The ceiling light hums faintly, its rhythm like the breathing of someone asleep without dreams. I sit on the cold floor, staring at the line between tiles . It used to feel like a border between something and something else. Now it’s just a crack. I’ve tried asking myself: am I still here, or just the shadow of someone who once was? Outside the window, there is no outside. Only gray light—neither morning nor dusk—as if the world forgot where to put its sun. Sometimes I hear footsteps, though there’s no door in this room. Maybe they come from inside my head. Maybe from the walls mimicking human sounds. I’ve started to believe this room speaks in its own language: through echoes, through uncertainty. I once had a name, but now my name fee...