Morning train.
Same line, same rhythm,
cutting through the crisp winter air.

Soft sunlight leans in slowly,
slipping between shoulders,
resting gently on winter-pale faces.

The city breathes through noise—
footsteps, traffic,
voices tangled in passing.

A laugh breaks loose,
echoing against a wall
dressed in street art and half-torn stickers,
like fragments of the city’s memory
slowly peeling away.

Then evening arrives in gold.

People drift through the streets,
each carrying a silence of their own—
eyes somewhere far away,
hearts quietly speaking within.

A quiet kind of dreaming,
almost sacred in its stillness.

These ordinary things
became my nostalgia for Berlin.

Nothing loud.
Nothing grand.

Just something hidden in the everyday—
in movement,
in stillness,
in the passing light,
in what we see
and almost forget.

Perhaps these are the moments
that stay with us the longest—

ordinary days
we never thought to hold on to,
until distance taught us
how deeply we would miss them.

And somewhere in that distance,
they are still glowing.