The Swamp of Time The bitter smell of cigarettes and the ashes of old memories filled the room. He felt trapped in a dark, endless tunnel, where no light could be seen at the end. A tunnel whose walls were made of old memories, memories that each time he touched them, a fresh wound opened on his soul. He opened the window. It was drizzling. With a deep breath, he drew the air into his lungs; he lit the candles. The shadows of the candles were gently dancing on the wall. He sat at his desk. He opened the old notebook. His fingers trembled on the pages of his notebook, the same notebook that was once full of travel maps and a list of "big things to do before I die." But now its pages smelled of despair. He remembered Isabella, who always said, "Taste the world, even if it's bitter." But now... now even the taste of cigarettes was meaningless to him. He opened the notebook. The rustling sound of the pages in the silence of the room was like a whisper of reproach. He picked up his pen. He looked at the date on the calendar and wrote it in the corner of the notebook. And he began to write: "I'm so confused. I don't know what I want to do anymore. What is my future supposed to look like? I don't even know exactly what to wish for! At best, I have 30 years left of my life, and I really don't want to spend these years, months, days, hours, and remaining moments the way I'm spending them now. Time is like the sands of the desert, its seconds burning my skin. The world is so beautiful. There are still so many places I haven't seen, and I know that by seeing each new place, I can deeply learn a new experience. There are still many people in the world I haven't met, and I'm going to learn a new and exciting lesson from each one. I know I'll be happy because I've been sure until now that my happiness comes from new and exciting experiences. When I was talking to the only old man who survived the 'Killing Fields' of Cambodia, and he was telling me about his memories in prison and the crimes of the Khmer Rouge, I remember I came to myself and saw that he had been talking to me for nearly three hours, and I hadn't said a word out of the excitement of hearing his strange words and unbelievable memories. I didn't even remember to light a cigarette. Those moments were truly real life because time no longer had meaning for me. When you don't notice the passage of time, those are the moments when you are truly living. Or when I was talking to that poor but artistic and kind old woman in a village in India, she made me laugh, I felt that the best place in the world was exactly where I was because I had peace and felt safe. We were sitting on the balcony of her house, she kept pouring tea for me and telling me about her youth. The taste of that tea is still the best tea I've ever experienced in my life... because I felt I could be my true self next to that old woman. I could be..." Unconsciously, the smell of cardamom and ginger filled his mind, the same scent that the old village woman had poured into the cracked cup with her chapped hands. The old woman's voice echoed in his ears, saying every day: "My son, I sweetened your tea with honey." He continued writing: "I remember when I was happily talking to those Afghan children in a remote village, and they were telling me about their dreams, but I saw that deep sorrow in their eyes, for the first time I decided that I should be more useful in my life and do whatever I can, no matter how small. But now I'm just sitting and doing nothing. Because after all these years and all these experiences, I don't even know what job I really love?! Where in the world do I want to live?! Or which girl do I want to marry?! And most importantly, what important thing do I want to do in my life, and what is my life's mission? All these years, I had experienced that happiness comes from successful movement in a path, towards reaching a clear, important, and impactful goal. I had thought a lot about all these topics and found many different suggestions for myself, but none of them were so lovable and motivating that I wanted to strive to achieve them. It seems I'm tired. It seems the efforts of these 40 years of my life have taken away the energy and strength to try again. It seems the many failures I've had in my life have killed motivation and hope in me. I feel wounds all over my being. I'm tired of everything, even people, even my closest friend. I feel like I'm stuck in a swamp in these conditions and I'm rotting. I feel the passage of every second and regret why the moments of my life, these precious and priceless minutes, are being wasted without a good goal. I don't want it to continue like this, I don't want to spend the rest of my life like this..." He closed his notebook. He held his head with both hands and placed his elbows on his knees. He sighed deeply. His gaze fell on the ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes. Today, he had smoked even more than yesterday. He opened his pack of cigarettes. He was happy; he still had one cigarette left. He leaned back in his chair, lit the cigarette with a lighter that was a memento of an old love, and took a deep drag. He exhaled the smoke with all his might, as if he wanted to expel some of the pains and sorrows of his soul from his being. The cigarette smoke swirled and disappeared, as if it had swallowed all his hopes. Now neither the world had a taste, nor the cigarette. Even its smoke no longer danced; it just extinguished, like his dreams. He got up tired and bored and opened his closet. He took out a record from his collection of classical music. That closet was a symbol of buried memories for him. He didn't even have the patience to search through the records. He just picked one at random. Once, he had collected all those records from different countries with interest, once all those songs made him happy and he enjoyed listening to them. But these days, he didn't listen to music much. "Even the songs bore me. I wanted to listen to songs I hadn't heard before, to get excited again like in the old days when I discovered a good song." Suddenly, when the song started playing, a spark of joy lit up in his eyes. Each melody of this song was full of memories for him, full of beautiful feelings, full of love... Every time he listened to this song, he flew with it, as if he was no longer in this world. It was strange that this record had found its place among classical music. He felt every word of the song with all his being. Because when he first heard it, the best event of his life had happened... he had experienced love. This song took him to Portofino, to the balcony of the restaurant where he first saw Isabella. He reached out to take another cigarette but remembered that he had run out of cigarettes. Next to the old music record, under the light of the lamp, there was a deep scratch; exactly where the song "Portofino," which he loved so much, seemed to have taken Isabella away from him. He placed the needle on the record, and the song began. He lay down, closed his eyes, let go of his thoughts, as if he was sitting on that chair again, watching the beautiful sunset. A calm smile was on his lips, the wrinkles around his eyes were more noticeable. "He whispered to himself..." 🎶 "I found my love in Portofino..."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

🎶 I found my love in Portofino

 🎶Perché nei sogni credo ancor because I still believe in dreams

 🎶Lo strano gioco del destino the strange twist of fate

🎶A Portofino m" ha preso il cuor in Portofino my heart was captured

🎶Nel dolce incanto del mattino in the sweet enchantment of the morning

🎶Il mare ti ha portato a me the sea brought you to me

🎶Socchiudo gli occhi a me vicino I close my eyes near me

🎶A Portofino rivedo te and I see you again in Portofino

🎶 Ricordo un angolo di cielo I remember a corner of heaven

🎶Dove ti stavo ad aspettar where I was waiting for you

🎶Ricordo il volto tanto amato I remember the beloved face

🎶E la tua bocca da baciar and your lips to kiss I found my love in Portofino I found my love in Portofino

🎶Quei baci più non scorderò those kisses I will never forget

🎶Non è più triste il mio cammino my path is no longer sad 

🎶 Ricordo un angolo di cielo I remember a corner of heaven

The gramophone kept spinning. The cracked record left the song unfinished. Outside the window, it started raining. Stunned, he just stared outside... Raindrops slid down the glass, as if washing away the traces of his tears. The rain brought the smell of the sea... the smell of a path that had never ended... Suddenly, the doorbell rang. In this heavy silence, its sound was like a shot fired from a very distant place. He got up, hesitated for a moment, then opened the door with hesitant steps. 

The postman had a letter in his hand. A real letter, on paper! Who sends letters to anyone these days? Without saying anything, he took the letter. The postman didn't even wait for a signature, just nodded and left.

He hurriedly opened the envelope with a knife. The scent... a familiar scent, like a memory that still lingered on his skin.

Inside the envelope was only a photo, with that same handwriting he had known for years written underneath:

"There's always a way back. Monaco, where we didn't say goodbye."

He repeated to himself: Monaco... where we didn't say goodbye?

He touched Isabella's face in the photo gently and wistfully, as if it were a living thing. He missed her with all his heart.

Before he realized what was happening, the photo was covered in red stains.

He lifted his finger. He had cut himself, probably while opening the envelope.

A few more drops of blood fell on the photo.

He closed his eyes. He couldn't breathe properly.

There was a cracking sound.

He turned towards the gramophone.

The needle was still spinning on the scratched record, but the song was no longer playing. He lifted the needle.

The room was filled with silence. A heavy silence, as if it were in the vacuum of space.

Suddenly, a cold wind blew in from the window. The curtains twisted and turned, the dancing shadows of the candles were extinguished. For a moment, he felt someone standing right behind him. He smelled the dampness of the sea and the moisture of the earth, the same scent Isabella always carried with her.

His heart skipped a beat.

He looked at the letter again...

The letter seemed to be... coming alive.

Maybe it was he himself who was starting to feel alive again.

Outside, the rain intensified.

Monaco was no longer just a distant memory.

Perhaps it had never been just a memory...