I carry a passenger with me. Silent during the day, at night he whispers bittersweet delusions to me.
Every morning, I take a thirty-minute walk. The cold sears my nose and splits my lips. I do it anyway. That breath of fresh air stays with me for the rest of the day.
As I come back home, I briskly make the right turn that shadows my building. Then, as I clear the turn, I see its front lobby — brightly lit by the Sun in the morning, a golden ratio backdrop of light at night.
One hour later, I am ready to tackle my day. I go out.
Winter night blankets the city as I come home again. I walk back, getting closer and closer to that last corner.
Right before I make the turn, my passenger comes alive. He squeezes my heart and shoves a lump in my throat, as he whispers in my ear:
Maybe it'll be tonight.
Maybe tonight you'll see her silhouette against that light.
It'll be there, standing next to the silhouettes of two suitcases.
The same suitcases she took with her when you sent her away.
As I clear the turn, I see it, right there, in front of the lobby, framed by its light.
And then I shake my head, reopen my eyes.
He was wrong. There's no one there. All I see is a lobby, empty, surrounded by the Zürich winter night.
I fear my passenger is dying. With every new night that passes us by, the silhouette slowly fades away.