I wandered for a while through Oxford before returning to London, as though I were postponing something I knew all too well—something I feared to the point of suffocation. I had no business there, no appointment waiting for me. Only a vague desire to walk without purpose… a desire to let my feet lead me wherever they wished, as if stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant drowning.
The river was unusually calm, its surface reflecting a grey sky tinged with a faint, weary blue—like a sky tired of holding back its anger. Along its banks, lotus flowers swayed in the cold breeze, as if waving farewell to something leaving without return… or perhaps to something that would never come back at all.
I stood there for a long time, watching the water—not because there was anything worth contemplating, but because I could find nothing within myself worth thinking about.
In that moment, I felt a strange weight in my chest; not quite pain, but a dense emptiness, as though something had quietly withdrawn from me without notice, leaving behind a silence too heavy to bear.
A silence like an abandoned room—you know it was once full of life, yet you cannot imagine how.
As the light began to fade, I realized I had to return—not because I wanted to, but because all places become the same when you carry yourself with you. There is no difference between one city and another, no distinction between one street and the next, when you are the one thing you cannot escape.
At the train station, people moved quickly, each toward their own destination—faces worn with fatigue, others rushed, others lost in newspapers that did not concern them. Footsteps, distant announcements, the shrill cry of trains… an entire life unfolding around me, while I felt suspended outside of time.
I sat on a cold bench, watching them as if I were invisible. I was not part of that human current, only a passing observer—as though I were looking in on a world that did not belong to me.
Minutes passed… or perhaps an hour. I could no longer tell. Time had lost its shape, just as I had lost my sense of it.
When the train arrived, I boarded without thinking and took a seat by the window. Throughout the journey, I saw nothing. The scenery passed—trees, houses, lights—but my eyes failed to register them. It was as if I had lost the ability to see anything outside my own mind… or perhaps the outside no longer mattered.
I arrived in London.
I got off in the neighborhood next to the one I lived in. I did not head straight to my apartment, as though I were avoiding walls that knew me too well. Instead, I made my way to Wilton's—a place that had, somehow, become more familiar than my own home.
When I stepped inside, I was greeted by the warmth of food and the low murmur of scattered conversations. The place was nearly full, yet my usual corner was empty… as if it had been waiting for me.
"Simon!"
Daniel's voice rose from behind the counter, his usual wide smile in place. He was a man in his mid-forties, with a kind face and eyes marked by years of standing and working. For some reason, he seemed more like me than I had ever realized… or perhaps I was beginning to resemble him.
"You're late today," he said, approaching.
I simply nodded, without smiling.
He paused for a moment, as though he noticed something in my face.
"The usual?"
"Yes."
I added nothing. Words felt heavy, as though they required an effort I did not have.
He returned to the kitchen, and a few minutes later began preparing my favorite dish: oysters with cheese. Usually, I would stand with him sometimes, help a little, or at least joke around—but today, I remained where I was, staring at the wooden table in front of me as if it held a secret I could not understand.
He placed the dish before me, then sat across from me without asking.
"Why do you look so miserable today, Simon?"
I lifted my head slowly.
"I'm fine."
He smiled faintly—the kind of smile that says, I don't believe you, but I won't press you.
"Are you sure?"
I sighed.
"Just tired… I was in Oxford."
"Oxford?"
"Yes… my new job."
His eyes lit up with a hint of excitement.
"That's great! You kept saying you were waiting for a better opportunity."
"Yes… I kept saying that."
I fell silent for a moment, then added in a lower voice:
"But things feel different when they become real."
He didn't reply immediately. He simply nodded slowly, as if he understood what I hadn't said.
"Change is always frightening," he said at last.
I gave a faint smile, one that never reached my eyes.
I finished my meal in silence. The taste was the same—good, precise—but I couldn't feel it. As if my sense of taste had stopped… or perhaps I had.
When I was done, I asked for a bottle.
Daniel looked at me for a moment.
"You said you were trying to cut down."
"Not tonight."
He didn't argue. He simply brought it and set it in front of me.
I held it, studying it for a moment. I didn't truly want to drink, but the idea itself was comforting—to lose consciousness a little, to quiet that silent noise inside me, to replace thought with something less cruel.
I paid and left.
The air outside was cold, carrying a faint scent of dampness. The streets had begun to empty, except for a few passersby who didn't seem to have anywhere to return to.
I walked slowly, without direction, until I found myself in my neighborhood.
It was late.
Dim yellow lights cast long shadows across the pavement, and familiar faces appeared in the corners: drifters, men with worn-out features, and women chasing their livelihood in the darkness, offering themselves with eyes emptied of everything… even hope.
One of them looked at me.
She gave a faint smile, then took a step closer.
I stopped.
Neither of us spoke. We simply exchanged a brief glance, as if each of us saw in the other a pale reflection of something we knew too well: exhaustion… or perhaps loss.
Then she walked away.
I continued until I reached the building door.
I stood there for a moment, staring at it—not as a mere entrance, but as a boundary between two versions of myself: one that wandered aimlessly, and another that would step inside to face a heavier silence.
I slowly took out the key…
…and hesitated.
He hesitated.
Then he opened the door.
The silence inside the apartment was unlike any other.
It wasn't a comforting quiet, nor a natural stillness, but something dense—something that filled the space the way water fills a sealed room. When Simon closed the door behind him, he felt as though he had stepped into a place that knew him better than he knew himself.
He took off his coat slowly and hung it with excessive care, as if any careless movement might disturb the weight of that silence.
He didn't turn on the lights right away.
He had grown used to letting the darkness advance a little—to giving his eyes time to adjust… or perhaps to delaying the moment of confrontation.
From the window, the streetlights slipped in—faint yellow lines stretching across the walls, revealing fragments of the room in broken glimpses.
The apartment was small, more orderly than it should have been.
Everything was in its place. No mess. No real trace of a life being lived here. As if it weren't a home, but a long waiting room.
He stepped toward the table, set the bottle down, then sat.
He remained like that, motionless.
Minutes… or perhaps longer.
Then he reached out slowly, opened the bottle, and poured a little into a glass.
He didn't drink immediately.
He kept staring at the liquid, as if expecting it to say something.
At last, he raised the glass and took a sip.
The taste didn't matter.
Nor the sensation.
It was simply an act—a repetition of a habit whose beginning he no longer remembered, nor the reason it had endured.
He closed his eyes.
And in that moment, the voice returned.
Not a real voice, but a memory… clearer than it should have been.
"You're not running away, Simon… you're just postponing."
He opened his eyes quickly, as if expecting to see someone standing there.
But the apartment was the same—empty and quiet.
He ran a hand over his face, then stood abruptly, as though sitting had become a burden.
He moved toward the window, opened it slightly, and cold air slipped in, reviving him for a moment.
The city below had not yet slept.
Lights… cars… distant sounds—a life that went on.
As for him, he was suspended somewhere between past and present, unable to belong to either.
He returned to the table.
This time, he didn't sit.
He opened a small drawer and took out something carefully wrapped. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly unfolded it.
It had been three years.
A different apartment… larger, messier, more alive.
She had filled the space.
Her laughter, her quick footsteps, the way she spoke—even her silence had meaning.
"Simon, you think too much."
She had said it once, standing behind him in the kitchen, watching him struggle to fix something simple.
"And you don't think enough."
He replied without looking at her.
She laughed.
"Maybe… but I live more."
He stopped what he was doing and turned to her.
"And I don't live?"
She stepped closer, placing her hand on his chest.
"You live here…"
Then she lifted a finger to his head.
"But not here."
He kept looking at her, unable to respond.
She always saw what he refused to see.
He returned to the present abruptly.
As if someone had switched that scene off.
He tightened his grip on the photograph for a moment, then loosened it quickly, as if afraid he might tear it.
He drank again.
This time, faster.
"Why now?"
he murmured.
He wasn't asking anyone.
He knew the answer.
Oxford.
The new job.
A new beginning… as they call it.
But he didn't believe in new beginnings.
To him, they were merely extensions of what had never ended.
He stood again and began to walk around the apartment.
His steps were slow, uneven.
He stopped in front of the mirror.
He looked at himself.
His face felt unfamiliar—as if it belonged to someone he knew, but did not trust.
"Have I changed?"
he asked aloud.
There was no answer.
But his eyes were enough.
He had changed… yes.
But not in the way he had hoped.
He returned to the table, took the photograph, and placed it back in the drawer—but did not close it.
He left it slightly open.
As though he wasn't ready to hide the past completely.
He picked up the bottle—this time without a glass—and drank directly.
Then he sat on the floor, leaning against the wall.
Time passed without him noticing.
Thoughts blurred.
Memories repeated.
And the silence… remained.
Before he slept—if what happened could be called sleep—one clear thought crossed his mind:
Maybe I should go.
He didn't say where.
But he knew.
Oxford was not merely a job.
It was a confrontation.
Simon woke to a faint light slipping through the curtains.
It was not a natural awakening, but something closer to a heavy emergence from an uneasy depth. He opened his eyes slowly and remained lying still, trying to remember where he was… or perhaps why he was here.
His head felt heavy, a bitter taste filling his mouth. He turned slightly and saw the bottle on the floor, tilted, with the unused glass beside it.
"As usual…"
he murmured, this time without irony.
He sat up with effort, ran his hands over his face, then looked around. The apartment was just as he had left it—silent, cold, as though the night had never fully departed.
But today was not like the others.
Today… he had to go to Oxford.
He remained seated for several minutes, as if waiting for the thought to change—for an excuse to appear, for a reason to delay.
Nothing came.
At last, he stood.
He moved slowly, as though his body resisted him. He entered the bathroom and looked at the mirror—the same face he had seen the night before, only more worn.
He splashed cold water on his face once… then again.
"That's enough,"
he said, as though issuing a command to himself.
He dressed carefully, mechanically, without thought. A simple shirt, his dark coat—everything felt like part of a memorized routine, devoid of life.
Before leaving, he paused at the door.
The same hesitation.
But this time, it didn't last.
He stepped out in silence.
The walk to the station felt longer than usual.
More people. Louder sounds. The city more intrusive.
Or perhaps he had simply become less tolerant.
He bought a ticket and waited.
He didn't sit.
He remained standing, watching the train as it arrived, as though he didn't quite trust it—or what it would carry him toward.
He boarded.
He took a seat by the window again.
But this time… he was seeing.
The stretching fields, the scattered trees, the sky slowly reclaiming its clarity—everything was moving, changing, advancing.
"Except me…"
he said to himself.
When he arrived in Oxford, the air felt different.
Cleaner. Lighter. As though it didn't carry the same weight as London. The old buildings, the narrow streets, the relative quiet… everything suggested a kind of stability.
But inside him… nothing had changed.
He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket—the address of his workplace.
He looked around, then began to walk.
Each step was deliberate, measured, as though he were approaching something from which there would be no turning back.
After a few minutes, he arrived.
An old building, with a stone façade and tall windows. Nothing striking, yet it carried a quiet presence.
He stopped at the door.
Looked at it.
Then went in.
Inside, it was simple, orderly, and notably quiet.
A woman at the reception desk greeted him with a professional smile.
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
"How can I help you?"
He hesitated for a moment, then said:
"I'm Simon… it's my first day."
Her smile widened slightly.
"Welcome—we've been expecting you. Please, come with me."
She gestured for him to follow.
They walked through a long corridor, its walls lined with framed photographs and certificates—fragments of the place's history, perhaps.
"You'll be working with the team on the second floor," she said as she led him up the stairs.
He wasn't really listening.
Something else occupied him.
A strange feeling… familiar.
As though he had passed through here before.
But that was impossible.
Or so he thought.
She led him into a spacious office.
Several desks. A few people working quietly.
"This is Simon," she said.
Some of them looked up, exchanged brief greetings, faint smiles.
Ordinary.
Everythig was ordinary.
"You can sit here," she said, pointing to a desk by the window.
He sat.
Placed his bag down.
Looked around.
And then… something happened.
Something small.
But enough.
Across the room, on one of the desks, there was a photograph.
He wasn't supposed to notice it.
But his eyes locked onto it immediately.
He froze.
The same feeling.
The same weight.
He stood slowly, without realizing it.
Took a step forward.
Then another.
Until he was standing in front of the desk.
He looked at the photograph.
And time stopped.
It was her.
The same.
The same face.
The same smile.
But… with someone else.
"Are you alright?"
The voice came from behind him.
He turned quickly.
A man in his late thirties looked at him with mild confusion.
Simon gestured toward the photograph.
"Who is she?"
The man glanced at it, then back at him.
"That?"
He hesitated for a moment, then said:
"She used to work here."
"Used to?"
"Yes… some time ago."
Silence.
"Do you know her?"
Simon didn't answer immediately.
His eyes returned to the photograph.
Then he said quietly:
"Yes…"
He paused.
Then added:
"I know her very well."
He went back to his seat.
But he was no longer the same.
Everything had changed.
The air was heavier.
The silence… different.
And the beginning… was no longer a beginning.
It was a return.
To something that had never ended
To be continued…