Never-ending Reconstruction of the Past

While I am trying painstakingly to piece together the route we took in Granada, and thinking about taking pictures of it - as a visual reference for remembrance - an image flashed through my mind: it was the street running alongside the Campo de San Francisco and leading to the bus station. One block before reaching the station, I would turn left, then right, and left and there I would find above my head your closed window - because you'd left. I was in the station to see you off, you were surprised by my presence. It was a cold and misty early morning, futilely, I chased after the bus on my bicycle - attempting to keep you in my sight for just even a few seconds more. Shortly after leaving the station, the bus took to the bridge and then disappeared on the horizon leaving disturbed vapours in its wake and a lone figure panting violently in the middle of the semi-dark street called Peña de Francia.