The Revealing Pause

The following day was one of complete freedom.

No appointments.

No schedule.

No driver.

No ceremony.

I walked through Piccadilly Circus, and my eyes always drifted in the same direction.

Soho.

When I was younger, I had been welcomed into those places.

Not only as a customer.

Also as an observer.

A welcome guest.

Openly welcome.

As the years passed, I learned that weaknesses should not be hidden.

They should be understood.

And, when they harm no one, they can even be nourished by the things that bring us pleasure.

I walked without hurry.

London seemed quieter than usual.

Perhaps the city had changed.

Perhaps I had changed.

Or perhaps it was simply Maggy’s influence.

Ever since I had met her, every street seemed to tell a story.

Every building appeared to guard a memory.

Every corner of the city seemed to belong to someone who was no longer there.

For the first time, I was not visiting London.

I was listening to it.

And as I crossed Piccadilly Circus, among the lights, the tourists, and the old ghosts of my youth, I knew that this was not a day of rest.

It was simply the interval between one lesson and the next.

Because the following day I would see my aunt again.

And with her, most likely, another piece of a story that no one had yet finished telling.