The morning was cool but no longer wintry. The air still carried a slight freshness from the night’s rain, and the asphalt glistened faintly under the streetlights, which were about to flicker off. I walked along the empty street, leading Kusik on his leash. He moved slowly, sniffing every corner, picking up traces of the city’s nighttime life.
On the sidewalk lay the peels of a freshly eaten mandarin, next to a neatly cut Barcelona transport card, sliced into perfect squares. Someone had been eating a mandarin while meticulously cutting up their transit card? Why? My mind painted a picture: a person sitting on a bench, methodically measuring and cutting the plastic, perhaps even using a ruler to ensure perfect precision. But for what purpose? Maybe the card had expired, and this was a symbolic farewell. Or was someone metaphorically “cutting ties” with Barcelona before leaving? Silly thoughts, but intriguing ones.
A little further down, a discarded Princess-brand bread maker sat on the curb. It was clearly thrown out, but by whom? A passerby cleaning out old junk? Or someone who, in a fit of frustration, decided they were done with homemade bread? For a moment, I imagined an exasperated person pulling a misshapen, burnt loaf out of the pan, then storming out to chuck the entire machine onto the street, muttering, “To hell with it! It doesn’t work anyway!”
I smirked. Of course, this was all nonsense, but little everyday observations like these help unload the brain before a long workday. Instead of thinking about upcoming tasks, I could immerse myself in this microcosm of random street artifacts, trying to piece together their hidden stories.
Kusik tugged the leash, leading me forward, past puddles and reflections of the last remaining streetlights. We headed to the café on the corner, the one that had long been part of my morning ritual. At seven in the morning, it was just opening, the scent of freshly ground coffee and warm bread drifting through the air. I took my usual seat by the window, ordered a cappuccino and a croissant, while Kusik settled beside me, resting his head on his paws.
Through the glass, I watched the street, where remnants of someone’s story still lay: mandarin peels, a cut-up transport card, an abandoned bread maker. And suddenly, they seemed to form a strange yet fascinating snapshot of life—a reminder that even the most trivial details can tell a story if you stop and take a closer look.
