Photo by Juan Pablo Plata.
Jean Paul Silver, an atheist writer born in the warm lands of Colombia, arrived in Jerusalem with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. He had traveled to Israel to document the city's cultural tensions, a melting pot of religions that, for him, were nothing more than conflicting human narratives. His atheism didn't prevent him from being fascinated by the stories humans weave to explain the world, and so he accepted an invitation to an exhibition of Islamic posters in the heart of the Old City. The gallery was a narrow space, with stone walls oozing centuries of history. The posters, vibrant and laden with Arabic calligraphy, seemed to whisper in the dim light. Jean Paul, notebook in hand, jotted down details: the colors, the shapes, the Arabic phrases he didn't understand but that seemed hypnotic. One of the posters, in particular, captured him: a geometric design that seemed to rotate infinitely toward the center, like an eye watching him. For a moment, he felt dizzy, as if the ground beneath his feet had vanished. He shook his head, attributing it to travel fatigue, and stepped out into the bustle of Jerusalem's streets. He didn't take a taxi or consciously walk. Yet when he looked up, he found himself standing in front of the Olive Tree Hotel, miles from the Old City. His heart leaped. How had he gotten there? He checked his watch: barely ten minutes had passed since he left the gallery. Impossible. The journey, even by car, would have taken at least half an hour. His hands shook as he reached for his phone to check the time, but the screen was blank, as if the battery had died in an instant. As he entered the hotel lobby, the air felt thick, heavy with a smell of spices and old leather he didn't remember from his arrival. The reception desk, modern and polished that morning, now looked faded, as if time had worn it down. On the floor, where he expected to see gleaming marble, there was a makeshift market: stalls of antiques, threadbare rugs, baskets of dates and pomegranates. The vendors, wearing clothes that looked like they were from another era, stared at him with eyes that shone too brightly, as if they knew something he didn't. A woman wrapped in a dark veil offered him a bronze mirror. Jean Paul, without knowing why, took it. When he looked inside, his face was there, but behind him, in the reflection, he saw the poster gallery, the geometric design spinning endlessly. He stepped back, dropping the mirror, which didn't break when it hit the floor. The sound of the market faded, and suddenly the lobby was again that of the modern Olive Tree: bright lights, air conditioning, the murmur of guests. But Jean Paul couldn't shake the feeling that something had followed him from the gallery. In his room, he found his notebook open on a page he didn't remember writing. It was a crude, almost childlike drawing of the geometric poster, with a phrase in Arabic he didn't understand. Beneath it, in his own handwriting, was written: "Don't walk. You are already here." That night, as he tried to sleep, he heard a whisper, as if the air itself spoke in an ancient language. He didn't know if he had crossed a threshold in Jerusalem, if the poster had led him to some impossible place, or if his exhausted mind was betraying him. But when he closed his eyes, the geometric design swirled in the darkness, and the floor beneath his bed seemed to fade away again.
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