A wet cobblestone street. Late evening. Orange light from a shuttered café.

A woman sitting by a rain-streaked window. Her hand touches the glass.

A ticket stub on the table. Date smudged. Destination erased.

she waited not for him but for the echo of a door that never closed Sound: Distant tram bell. Then silence.

The Last Tram

Some goodbyes don't end a thing. They just learn to be quiet.

The city remembers your footsteps better than I do.