I lived in a room up high, with walls painted blue, I had a neighbor or two, once.
One of them was an old man, with long grey hair, pale dark skin and a deep voice. I used to listen to him talk at nights. He called someone's name and I could almost hear it once.
He stared out his dusty window every afternoon. Waited for bird seasons. He was wise, I could tell. And he was patient. People said he had a family and a beautiful daughter. He might have been a writer, a lawyer or a politician, once.
I saw a land on his walls; pictures of trees and houses, framed poems and maps. He left home. Anyone would've guessed he doesn't belong here but did belong somewhere once.
My other neighbor, a lonely woman in her middle thirties, had knocked on his door once.
She wanted a memory. He wanted a friend. And I would hear their laughter speak to the air and travel through the night sky. They were like magic, once.His balcony had a plant. It had a flower I would watch grow every spring. It grew like it was re-born and died like it was human. It shattered with leaves and birds leaning next to it. I remember like it was yesterday. I remember when he forgot to water it, once.
I kept their existence for me. Because his words brought me life just like water, and her love was like the sea.
I heard him repeating a poem all night, once.
He said: "Tell her things come and go, and it will get better. Tell her not to drown in guilt or solitude. Tell her to let go what she lost and breathe."
Then after hours, he froze and grabbed the fence. His eyes watered and his breath rose and I could hear nothing but that. Even the wind didn't make a sound. Neither did the mountains nor the angels that passed us by.
I heard nothing, and it was peaceful, once.