A City That Holds My Questions

That evening, the familiar sound of the number 28 tram echoed through the narrow streets. The sun had not yet fully disappeared, and the Tagus River shimmered faintly, like a mirror to my drifting thoughts.

I paused at a corner in the old town, watching the yellow tram climb the hill, its body gliding through Lisbon’s worn stone like a brushstroke from another time. It moved just as Pessoa once described: steady, familiar, quietly enduring.

Rather than board it, I wandered without a fixed directi...