They were just walking, two friends, maybe sisters, maybe strangers caught in the same motion. The sun had dipped behind the rooftops of Gemmayze, and Rue 60 exhaled its late afternoon hush. Down the art stairs, voices drifted from cafés, a guitar strummed somewhere too casually to be a performance.

They walked quickly, mid-conversation, their outlines blurred by motion, or maybe memory. The women passed beneath a crumbling balcony and shuttered windows, unaware or unbothered by the torn tarp draped across the upper floor. It flapped gently like the remains of a flag. A cover hastily fastened after the blast of August 4, 2020, when the port’s shockwave ripped through these narrow streets, shattering glass and breath alike. The tarp stayed. Like so much else in Beirut, it became permanent by accident.

Above them, the building slouched, tired but defiant. Its stonework once decorative, its ironwork once prideful, now bear the scars of disaster and survival. Posters from years past curl at the edges. One reads “SO HAPPY HOUR”, its irony scratched in with permanent marker.

The women didn’t look up. Why would they? This was just their shortcut. Their daily climb. Beirut does what it always does: it survives by forgetting just enough to keep moving. Life pours down the stairs. New voices echo over old ones. Conversations flicker between balconies like laundry strung in the wind.

And just like that, they were gone. Their laughter brief. Their presence, a blur.

Only the building stayed…Watching… Waiting… Remembering.