The air in Kraków had changed.
By June of 1990, the city buzzed with something unfamiliar. Not just the usual sounds of trams and bicycles, but a kind of quiet optimism — the hum of new possibility. The old posters on the walls were peeling, revealing fresh, bright slogans underneath. The currency was changing. Even the air itself smelled different. Lighter. Unshackled.
And so was I. Lighter, but not ready to let go.
The portal had begun to weaken. I could feel it in my bones — every time I passed through the gate, I returned dizzier, more disoriented. The path was softening like memory. I knew it would close soon.
So I walked the city like a lover before a final farewell — slowly, greedily, taking in every sound, every face, every bit of streetlight.
And that’s when it happened.
The Man with the Familiar Eyes
I was walking through the Rynek, Kraków’s great market square, past a kiosk selling vinyl records and trinkets from Germany, when I heard a voice behind me.
“Przepraszam… miss?”
I turned.
An older man stood there. Well-dressed, in a summer hat, with kind, searching eyes. I knew that face from photos, albums, memories.
It was my grandfather’s best friend, Janek — the man who used to visit every Sunday for chess and whisky, the man I once heard stories about as a girl but never met in my own lifetime.
He blinked at me, slowly.
“You look… very much like someone I used to know,” he said in Polish, his voice light but trembling at the edges. “Or… not yet know, maybe.”
My stomach clenched. The world stilled.
“I get that sometimes,” I smiled gently, carefully, trying not to speak too much.
He tilted his head. “Your accent… you're from here?”
“Sort of,” I said, carefully. “But not now.”
He smiled at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he was trying to place a memory on the edge of forgetting.
“I knew a woman once,” he said, “who looked like you. But she hasn’t had children yet. I don’t think she’s even married. You couldn’t be her daughter.”
I didn’t answer. Just smiled. Softly. Sadly.
“But if you see her,” he said, his voice trailing into some private confusion, “tell her… tell her she’s going to do alright.”
I nodded, throat tight. “I will.”
The Day the Light Changed
It happened two weeks later.
The light in the portal changed. Before, it shimmered like rippling water. Now, it looked brittle — like glass just before it cracks. And stepping through it left a strange sensation, like walking through the last pages of a book.
I returned one last time. Summer was at its peak. Birds chirped above Nowa Huta’s brick rooftops. The sky was so blue it almost hurt to look at.
I walked one final route:
Past the bakery with the sunflower seed rolls.
Past the bench where I’d once listened to my aunt gossip about boys.
Past the little green kiosk where I’d once bought chocolate I hadn’t tasted in decades.
And finally, past the building where my mother lived. I didn’t look up this time. I couldn’t.
Goodbye in Silence
At Duckett’s Gate — the crack in time that had brought me here — the shimmer was fading fast. It flickered like a candle low on wax.
I stood just outside it, hands in my coat pockets, heart thudding. My bag was packed, my pockets filled with pieces of that world — a pressed flower, a concert flyer, a tiny wooden toy.
One last breath.
And then, a voice behind me.
“I don’t know your name,” someone said.
I turned.
It was Janek again. The old man. His expression was calm, knowing, a bit distant.
“But I think you were meant to be here,” he said.
“I think so too,” I whispered.
He nodded. “Don’t forget us.”
“I never could.”
And with that, I stepped into the portal.
And Then It Was Gone
When I woke up, I was back in my rented flat in Dudley. Everything was quiet. The date was the same. The gate behind the tenement in Kraków had collapsed. The alley now held only trash bins and rust.
The past had closed its door.
But it wasn’t gone. Not from me.
Because I carry it — in the way I walk, in the songs I hum when I’m cooking, in the strange knowledge of how to comfort a younger version of my mother when she’s scared. In the taste of coffee that reminds me of 1989.
And sometimes, late at night, I write letters to the people I met. I leave them in between the pages of library books. I whisper their names to the wind.
They don’t know me.
But I know them.
And that was always enough.
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