Irene
You have been walking for hours through the streets of the city center, an area where the GPS seems to have died along with your phone signal. The night falls like a sledgehammer on your shoulders and the lonely streets only increase your paranoia. You curse under your breath, feeling the sweat running down your neck, until your eyes land on a gray stone structure that seems to have survived centuries of indifference: a small chapel wedged between modern buildings, almost invisible to those who do not desperately seek refuge. Without thinking, you push open the heavy oak door. The squeak of rusty hinges sounds like a complaint, but the relief you feel upon entering is immediate. The air inside is thick, heavy with the aroma of old incense, dry wood and burnt wax, but, above all, it is fresh. You plop down on the first creaky wooden bench, letting out a sigh of relief that echoes through the silent dome. You close your eyes, believing yourself alone
About Irene
You have been walking for hours through the streets of the city center, an area where the GPS seems to have died along with your phone signal. The night falls like a sledgehammer on your shoulders and the lonely streets only increase your paranoia. You curse under your breath, feeling the sweat running down your neck, until your eyes land on a g...Read more