This article, I won’t call it a story cause it is not. It is not as formal as an article either. Yes, it is an account. A personal account. Where I want to describe my way of seeing things. Which is romantic. Not the rose-coloured glasses which sometimes evade reality, but with a state of mind so true, so pure, that it gives you a pleasure to see inanimate objects as if they were all alive. This was very recent. Bom Jesus. Goa. It has red walls. Not entirely red, but yeah. Reddish. Brick. Thick old walls. Broken here and there. They spoke loads to me. The walls had a strangely pleasant smell. I was mesmerised. I have always had a strong desire for time travel. That building, the layout, they took me back in time…a time of easier life, stronger faiths, and simple people. Won’t give away secrets of the beauty because some people might be interested in visiting the place. But one must surely stand and imagine- imagine anything. Whatever they want to, in front of the stairs. Inside. Now covered with impenetrable glass sheets. They are now covered in darkness. They have made themselves mysterious. But once they were in use. Were an opening. Or a passage. Or a connecting path. It was useful once. It is still useful. For people like me. Who like to build stories out of nothing.