Fifth Journey Day 86: Where the Cat Passed

Date: August 2, 2025
Location: Bukhara, Uzbekistan

I didn't have a plan today. The alleys behind Lyabi-Hauz were quieter than I expected. They were narrow, brightly lit, and lined with high mudbrick walls. The wooden doors, some with deep carvings and others plain, leaned slightly inward or outward, as if the doors were listening. I followed their paths with my eyes, but I didn't take any pictures. The light was so clean that it almost hummed.

At one corner, I passed a boy crouched beside a leaking pipe, catching the water in his hands. He looked up but didn't say anything. I nodded, and he nodded back. I will always remember the quiet and the warmth of the air when we were both breathing.

I sketched for a little while in the shade of a low archway. The paper curled at the edges, becoming softer against my wrist. I noticed the angles of shadows, the way wires hung down between roofs, and the uneven pattern of bricks. A cat moved past me quickly, almost like a mist, brushing past my leg.

I didn't go into any buildings. I didn't need to. The streets were filled with a sense of presence — not of display, but of remnants. I couldn't stop thinking about what it means for a place to be whole without needing explanation. Bukhara doesn't try to be something it isn't. It waits. While you're waiting, you have time to think.

By the middle of the afternoon, I went back to the guesthouse, with dust on my sleeves and the sound of pigeons nesting somewhere just above my room. I didn't talk to anyone. It felt right.

Even now, as I write this, I feel like I'm still walking — not through streets anymore, but through the textures of the day, the quiet folds it left behind. Tomorrow I may do more, but today was enough.