A wet cobblestone street. Late evening. Orange light from a shuttered café.
A ticket stub on the table. Date smudged. Destination erased. ciro scripts
A woman sitting by a rain-streaked window. Her hand touches the glass. A wet cobblestone street
she waited not for him but for the echo of a door that never closed Sound: Distant tram bell. Then silence. ciro scripts
Some goodbyes don't end a thing. They just learn to be quiet.
The city remembers your footsteps better than I do.
The Last Tram