Somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow, there is a city that does not appear on any map. It has no name, no mayor, and no official population count. People arrive without meaning to, usually while trying to get somewhere else. TARITOTO Buses don’t have routes to it, trains don’t list it on the timetable, and yet somehow, everyone who visits swears they didn’t get lost — they just ended up there.
The First Thing You Notice
The first thing you notice in this city is the air. It smells faintly of roasted chestnuts and thunderstorms, as if the weather has been seasoned. The streets are cobbled, but not evenly — some stones are warm to the touch, while others are as cold as marble in winter. The lamps along the sidewalks hum softly, not with electricity, but with what sounds suspiciously like singing.
Shops have no names. Instead, they have symbols painted above their doors: a crescent moon for a bakery, a spiral for a tailor, a small fish for a café that doesn’t serve fish.
The only official-looking building is the Tower of Questions. It’s tall, narrow, and leans slightly to the left, as though listening. Inside, visitors are greeted by an old woman who simply asks, “What is it you think you’re looking for?” Most people leave without answering. Those who do answer are given something strange — a marble, a folded note, or a single glove.
A Market Without Prices
On the second street past the fountain, there’s a market. It doesn’t have price tags. Instead, every exchange is a trade. Want a loaf of bread? Offer the baker a story. A woman once bought an entire basket of apples by teaching the vendor how to whistle backwards.
There’s a stall that sells keys, hundreds of them, hanging from strings. None are labeled. The merchant insists you choose by sound, shaking each one until you hear the click that feels like yours. What the keys open is your own problem to discover.
The River That Forgets
At the far edge of the city is a wide river. Locals call it The Forgetting Water. If you drop something into it, you immediately forget what it was. Some people visit the river deliberately, tossing in memories they no longer want. Others avoid it entirely, afraid they might accidentally lose something they still need.
Once, a man threw in a small brass pocket watch and instantly forgot the name of someone he loved. He still walks the streets, searching, though he’s not sure for who.
The Clock That Runs Sideways
In the middle of the main square is an enormous clock, but instead of ticking forward, the hands move sideways. Time here is less of a line and more of a conversation. Hours sometimes arrive out of order. You might have lunch before breakfast, or watch the sunset before morning. The locals don’t mind — they say it gives them more room to live.
If you stand under the clock for exactly thirteen sideways minutes, a small door opens at its base. No one knows what’s inside because anyone who enters doesn’t come back the same day they left — if at all.
The Man With the Suitcase
I met a man there once who carried a suitcase full of rain. Not water, but rain. When he opened it, you could hear the faint patter of drops, smell the damp earth, and feel a cool mist against your skin. He said he collected it from storms he visited in different worlds.
I asked why he kept it.
“To remember,” he said. “Not everything worth keeping fits in a photograph.”
Before we parted ways, he gave me a single drop from his suitcase, sealed in a tiny glass bottle. I still have it, though I’m not sure if it will evaporate if I open it.
The Café That Never Closes
At the corner where the street bends toward the river, there’s a café that never closes. The lighting is always the same — dim, golden, like early evening. The owner is a tall man with hair like silver threads, who claims he has been awake for decades.
The menu changes without notice. One night you might find cinnamon tea and bread pudding; the next, something called moon soup and cloud pastries. No one ever asks what’s in them. The flavor changes with your mood anyway.
Everyone who visits leaves a note tucked under the tablecloth. The owner never reads them aloud, but sometimes he’ll hand one to a new customer. Mine read: You’ll leave when you stop trying to remember the way out.
The Library of Half-Finished Books
Somewhere beyond the market is the Library of Half-Finished Books. Every shelf is lined with works that end mid-sentence, mid-scene, or mid-thought. The librarian says the books write themselves when their reader arrives. The ending depends on you — if you never return, the story never finishes.
I once opened a dusty volume and found the first line: “She stepped off the train, certain this was not the city she meant to visit…” The rest of the page was blank. I closed it quickly, unsure if it was about me.
The Exit You Can’t Take Twice
Eventually, everyone finds an exit from the city — though never the same one. Mine was through a narrow archway between two buildings. The moment I stepped through, I was on a street I recognized, in a city I knew, under a sky that felt ordinary.
I turned around to go back, but the archway was gone. In its place was a brick wall, still warm as though it remembered me.
Now, I sometimes hear things — a faint market bell when I pass the subway station, the smell of cinnamon and rain when it hasn’t rained in weeks. I’ve kept the glass bottle with the drop of storm inside.
Some nights, I dream about the sideways clock, and when I wake, I can’t be sure if the time on my phone is wrong, or if I’m just still on the city’s schedule.
They say the city appears when you need it, not when you’re looking for it. If that’s true, maybe one day I’ll find my way back. And maybe, just maybe, this time I won’t leave.