I walked through wide streets paved with stones so polished they looked freshly cleaned. People hurried past without lingering glances. White light from shop signs washed over everything, creating a cleanliness that felt almost sterile.
Whenever I looked up, I felt drawn into the blue dome above. Electric lines ran across it like the neural network of a colossal being, watching us all.
A question echoed in my mind: If Gió were here, what would she think?
I pictured her standing beneath this sky, long hair falling softly over her shoulders, eyes quietly searching for something.
The fragment of Gió’s memory rested against my chest, sometimes trembling as if it sensed this place. Each time, a faint sound drifted through my mind—a hint of her laughter, or perhaps just the illusion of a man afraid to forget.
On the first day, I stopped by a small café. The server placed a cup before me without asking. It was hot, rich, and exactly how I liked it—though I had never been here before.
I asked her name, but she only smiled and shook her head. Here, it seemed, unnecessary questions were ignored.
On the second day, I noticed something strange. A vendor at the street corner handed me the same flyer as yesterday, the text slanting oddly to the left. I slipped it into my pocket, but when I returned to my room, it was gone.
On the third day, in the middle of the crowd, a child ran past me… and I was certain I saw them twice within five minutes. Same clothes. Same small scrape on the cheek.
I touched the memory fragment. Its rhythm quickened, as if warning me.
I didn’t yet understand, but the feeling of “a strange sense of repetition” began to cling to me—like a thin cord tightening slowly around my neck.
