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One message in her handwriting. Another whispered by a passing group. |
I’ve been quiet.
I still have film.
I haven’t taken any more pictures.
Not yet.
Instead, I’ve been trying to understand.
To follow what Isabel left behind.
Because the more I read, the more I feel it, this isn’t just about images.
It’s about decisions. About how you look, and when.
After the forest, Isabel didn’t stop.
She kept taking pictures. Most came back blank. No messages.
And then, one day, the camera gave her something else.
A new message:
"Segue o trilho."
Follow the trail.
That was it.
No instructions. No map.
Unfortunately, that photo wasn’t among Isabel’s belongings.
I only found her notes about it, not the image itself.
And whatever was in the frame… she never described it.
After that, she started rethinking the first message:
“Procura as alturas onde risos e memórias esquecidos pairam no ar.”
Seek the heights where forgotten laughter and memories float in the air.
She’d chosen the Roman Theatre in Lisbon. It made sense, an old hill, echoes of voices.
But now she wasn’t so sure.
“Às vezes penso que a câmara sabia o que eu ia fazer. Que me deixou tropeçar de propósito.”
Sometimes I think the camera knew what I was going to do. That it let me stumble on purpose.
She brought the camera. Waited for the feeling.
Took the picture.
And when the photo developed, there it was:
"Nos sussurros à tua volta encontrarás o próximo passo."
In the whispers around you, you’ll find the next step.
She read it. And then, just as the frame settled in her hands, she heard them.
A group passed by.
A guided urban art tour.
They stopped near the mural.
The guide mentioned a place. A name: Panorâmico de Monsanto, a ruined viewpoint hidden in the hills above Lisbon.
Street art. Echo chambers. Hidden paintings.
That was the whisper.
The real one.
“O sussurro veio de quem passava, não das pedras.”
The whisper came from those passing by, not from the stones.
It wasn’t in the ruins. It was in the voices around her.
And she wrote it down, as clear as anything:
“É para lá que vou.”
That’s where I’m going.
I’ve created an archive of Isabel’s contents.
There you’ll find everything I know about her — her Moleskine pages, book notes, marked passages, and the scattered pictures she left behind.
Here is the door to Isabel S.’s soul.
