I didn’t realize I was walking in a circle until the third time I passed the same faded yellow door.
It had a red string tied to the handle — frayed at the ends, gently swaying.
The kind of detail you think you imagined… until it’s there again.
This wasn’t a lost path. It was a city designed to make you forget time.
Small canals. Bridges that led to bridges.
Signs that pointed nowhere in particular.
Shops that sold nothing but tea, and time.
At first, I felt silly retracing my own steps. Then I started to notice what I hadn’t seen:
The cat I missed the first round.
The shadow in the second window. The smell of lemongrass that hadn’t been there an hour ago.
I didn’t leave with souvenirs. Just a deeper sense of how space bends when you stop resisting.
Some places aren’t meant to be understood. They’re meant to be looped — like a song.
And each loop sings something new.