After dropping off my luggage, I stepped into the city.
No map. No destination. Just steps.
I decided to walk without checking the phone, using only my brain to remember street corners and color cues.
It’s funny—when I used to travel with others, I always let them lead.
Now, even in this tiny city, everything felt unfamiliar again.
I passed a hop-on-hop-off bus.
Without thinking, I got on.
Sometimes, letting the road carry you is better than choosing where to go.
It felt like visiting Tallinn for the first time, even though I had been here years ago—
with my child, back when she was just a baby.
Places reappeared like ghosted memories.
Soft flashes.
Not quite painful.
Not quite joyful.
Just… there.
This time, I was walking alone.
No plan, no schedule.
And strangely, that made everything feel more real.
Eventually, I ended up at the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, perched high on the hill opposite the parliament building.
I’d never been inside. It looked so guarded, so sacred, that I thought it wasn’t open to the public.
Then I saw a few people step out, casually.
Curiosity pulled me in.
I’m not religious, but I am spiritual.
I watched the others cross themselves, and—without thinking—I mimicked them.
Not because I believed,
but because I respected belief.
I sat quietly in the back pew.
The choir hummed softly through the golden icons.
A smoky candle scent lingered in the air.
I closed my eyes.
And I prayed.
Don’t misunderstand me—
an atheist can still pray.
Mine was not a request. It was more like a confession whispered to the universe,
to divine spirit, to whatever energy might exist beyond the human grasp.
I told them I was tired.
That I wasn’t asking for miracles—
Just a normal life.
A stable job.
A peaceful home.
Someone to sit with, quietly.
The kind of life people seem to build so easily—
yet it had taken me over a decade to even ask for it out loud.
After that, I wandered back into the streets.
My stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten.
Out of all options, I found myself in a ramen shop.
It felt absurd—traveling all this way, only to eat ramen.
But when the energy runs low, absurdity can be comfort.
Later that evening, I had dinner in a small vegan restaurant.
It was packed.
People stood at the door, waiting, only to be turned away.
It made me wonder:
Have more people begun to walk away from meat?
Maybe red meat really isn’t good for us.
Or maybe people are just… trying.
Back at the hostel, I finally checked in.
They assigned me the top bunk.
I didn’t mind—
no one disturbed me up there, and I liked being close to the ceiling.
Surprisingly, by midnight everyone had returned.
All strangers, yet all silent.
Only I kept a small reading light on, eyes on my book.
I put my earplugs in,
curled into the quiet,
and drifted into deep sleep
after a long, wordless day.
But by morning, I was the first to rise.
Too old, maybe.
Even though people still guessed me to be twenty-eight.
And honestly—
I’ve been twenty-eight for fifteen years.
No wrinkles. No big changes.
Maybe the secret is this:
stay trustworthy,
live with wholeheartedness,
wash your face every night,
and don’t chase what doesn’t come willingly.
