Innsbruck: And All that “Never” Finished

Between every departure and return, the soul learns to measure silence. 

Ibn ‘Arabi

BY BENNY ARNAS

I am sitting in seat number 42, middle carriage, on the TGV Lyria bound for Paris–Zurich–Innsbruck. The window beside me reflects my own face—pale from the remnants of a fever, weary from a long journey, yet strangely calm. Outside, the Jura Mountains race backward like memories reluctant to be reclaimed. That afternoon, Paris had already become the past; Zurich, an uncertain future; and Innsbruck, a kind of meeting point between two times waving to each other from afar.

Six years ago, I met Ethile on a train like this. The only difference was that time, the train was moving from Hallstatt to Bled. Spring was in full bloom. He was twenty-four, a biology student at the University of Salzburg, carrying a large backpack and a single dried rose in his jacket pocket. Our conversation was brief, awkward, yet enough to spark a faint feeling that never went out—even after we parted at that small Slovenian station.

Since that first meeting, I have always believed that some people enter our lives not to stay, but to ignite a particular light—a quiet ember that continues to burn silently in the mind. So when Ethile! Ethile! was published four years ago, I knew that the best part of the novel was not its success in print, but the fact that Ethile himself still existed somewhere in my life, if only through short messages, random questions, or small conversations about the unfinished English version of the book.

Now, I sit on a train bound for the city where he lives with his partner, Judith, in Hötting, Innsbruck. The journey should have been ordinary, but—as with everything that involves Ethile—the universe seemed intent on adding a touch of drama. When the announcement came in French, I didn’t fully understand it—only heard the irritated exclamation of an Austrian man in front of me: “How could it be?” The English version clarified: the train would be delayed by 25 minutes.

I glanced at the ticket in my hand and realized that the next train—the one that would take me from Zurich to Innsbruck—was operated by a different company. There was no guarantee of connection. My pulse quickened. Outside, the European sky darkened fast, like an eyelid closing slowly. I texted Ethile. He told me to stay calm and ask the conductor directly. I agreed, though I didn’t actually do it.

An elderly man beside me—probably a Swiss executive—glanced at me briefly, then returned to reading Le Monde. In front of me, two Austrian men, newly married in Marseille two days ago, chatted cheerfully, oblivious to the rest of the world. Between their laughter and the rattle of the train, I stared out the window and felt quietly alone amid the noise.

At Basel, the train was delayed another fifteen minutes. My hope sank fast, like a compass needle losing north. I began making backup plans: maybe I would stop in Zurich and spend the night there—or go straight to Milan, the last city before my flight home to Jakarta next week. I sent a short message to Ethile: “Either Zurich or Milan. Depends on fate.”He replied almost immediately: “I’ll wait, Benn. Whatever happens.”

A few minutes before reaching Zurich, good news came from the conductor, whom I—and the other passengers bound for Innsbruck—had finally approached. “The train to Innsbruck won’t be delayed,” he said firmly, without sympathy. “But you won’t have much time to transfer.”

I hurried back to my seat, packed my bag, took a final sip of mineral water, and braced myself like a soldier before battle. As soon as the sign reading Zurich Hauptbahnhof came into view, I ran with the others down the cold platform. Platform seven: Innsbruck, said the digital board. I arrived just as the whistle blew. My breath burned, my chest ached, but my legs refused to stop. I jumped into the last carriage just before the automatic doors closed.

Once seated, I looked out the window—Zurich was fading behind a curtain of light rain—and whispered to myself, “I made it onto the same train. Again.”

The train rolled slowly, slicing through mountains that seemed to rise from fog and frozen time. Across from me sat an elderly nun. She held a rosary and gazed outside, her lips moving in silent prayer. Beside her, a small boy slept with his head resting on her shoulder. The scene reminded me of that first meeting with Ethile six years ago—how two strangers could find calm simply by sharing silence.

My stomach began to ache. I suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten since Paris. I took two antacid tablets, then opened my lunch box: rice and salted fish chili. Among seven European passengers with sandwiches and apples, I ate devoutly, like someone saved from a long fast.

A young passenger glanced at me for a while, then smiled. “Smells spicy,” he said.

I laughed and replied, “Tastes like home.”

The night aged, the cabin lights dimmed. The air grew colder. I drifted to sleep, only to wake when the train halted at Arlberg. For a second, I nearly got off—thinking it was the final stop. Luckily, the digital sign flashed in bright letters: Next stop: Innsbruck Hauptbahnhof. I exhaled, relieved. Once again, a small stroke of luck delayed a greater chaos.

At two in the morning, I finally arrived. The station was almost deserted. The sound of rolling suitcases and echoing footsteps stretched along the corridor. At the end of the platform, Ethile stood there. His dark blue jacket was damp with midnight mist. When we embraced, I realized how six years could dissolve into a single hug.

“Finally,” he said.

“Like a dream comes true,” I replied, half joking.

He looked at me just as he used to—with that clear, unembellished gaze. “Have you eaten?” he asked once his car pulled out of the station. I nodded. “The critical phase is over,” I murmured inwardly, remembering the two tablets of antacid I’d swallowed after finishing my packed meal.

Ethile’s house in Hötting was larger than I’d imagined. Like most modern European homes, its entrance opened directly into a small kitchen and bathroom, before unfolding into a bright, warm living room. Behind it, a wide glass wall revealed a small garden. On the dining table, climbing plants and orchids seemed pampered. “We planted all of these,” he said, taking off his jacket. “But I’m only in charge of watering.”

I laughed. “Seems like your division of labor is fair.”

“You’re good at flattering your host,” he teased.

We shared a few more light jokes before I finally lay down on the fold-out sofa, now turned into a broad bed. The thick blanket and dim lamp made me feel safe. Outside, the soft patter of rain touched the roof tiles. I closed my eyes, letting my weary body sink into the lingering aroma of coffee in the air.

Before sleep took me, I thought: some meetings exist not to continue anything, but to affirm that something once existed. That night, in a city I had never set foot in before, I felt that Ethile was not just someone I’d met on a train six years ago, but also a mirror of my own long journey—of time, loss, and the desire to reinterpret what I once wrote.

And when the clock on my phone showed 3:11 a.m., I heard the rain stop. The city slept in its perfect silence.

Morning in the House at Hötting

Morning light in Hötting arrived slowly, like a guest who knew how to behave. The thin curtain reflected a soft glow across the living room where I had slept. The smell of dry wheat bread mingled with the scent of coffee. From the kitchen came the sound of light footsteps—Judith, Ethile’s partner, preparing breakfast. When I sat up, the petite woman smiled and said playfully, “Now I finally believe you’re real!”

Ethile appeared from the kitchen carrying a wooden board with a loaf of sourdough and a knife on top. Judith placed a few small jars on the table. “Strawberry, apricot, and raspberry,” she said, pointing at each one. “We grew and made them ourselves.”

I chuckled. “So you’re not just a couple—you’re urban farmers too?”

Judith nodded proudly. “We trust our own hands more than supermarkets.”

I glanced at Ethile, seeking confirmation.

He only smiled. “She’s right, Benn. If there’s time later, I’ll take you to the garden. But careful—we have a dog who thinks every guest comes here to plant something.”

Breakfast was simple but warm. Outside, rain still trickled softly against the window. Through the glass wall at the back of the house, the Alps were faint behind the fog. Orchids bloomed on the dining table, and ivy trailed along the bookshelf—two living emblems of the tropics and Europe coexisting.

Looking around, I said, “Your house feels like a library built in the middle of a garden.”

Ethile replied, “That’s because I can’t choose between reading and planting.”

Then he showed me a box of fresh strawberries. “From the garden. Picked just yesterday.”

I took one and bit into it. The sweet-and-sour taste brought back a wave of nostalgia. “You know,” I said, “it tastes like mornings in my hometown—when my mother sprinkled sugar over sour fruit before I went to school.”

Ethile laughed. “You always know how to turn everything into a story.”

After Judith left for work at the national park, Ethile went out on his bike. “Just buying rice,” he said. But half an hour later, he returned carrying a vase of white orchids.

“I don’t see any rice there,” I teased.

“The rice is in the back bag. But the flowers were more persuasive,” he said lightly.

We laughed. When I offered to help with lunch, he seemed unsure how to cook rice using the kitchen tools. “Are you sure this will work?” he asked, skeptical, as I measured the soaking water in the rice cooker with my middle finger.

“This is an ancestral method in my country,” I said proudly.

I slipped a few eggs into the cooker. “So besides your fried chicken in yellow sauce, we’ll have an extra dish.”

“Eggs in rice? Are you serious?” he exclaimed.

“Just wait,” I replied.

When the rice finished cooking and the aroma of the yellow sauce filled the kitchen, I tasted it and said, “I didn’t know you could be such a good cook.”

Ethile shrugged. “Cooking and writing are the same thing. Both are about balancing flavors.”

After lunch, the rain began to ease. We got ready to hike a small hill about five hundred meters from his house. Ethile refused when I tried to carry a backpack. “No need. It’s just an afternoon walk.”

“A five-kilometer walk?” I protested.

“When you’re with an old friend, distance never feels long,” he said.

We started walking uphill through houses that looked like pieces cut out of old postcards. Wildflowers bloomed along the path, and the mountain air carried the scent of wet earth. Along the way, Ethile talked about the plants around us—those that were edible, and those that were poisonous.

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I’m a biologist,” he said casually. “But really, every science is just another way not to be blind to the world.”

That sentence silenced me. Perhaps it was true. True knowledge isn’t about mastery—it’s about awareness of something greater than ourselves.

We passed a few locals walking their dogs. They greeted us warmly, though with polite distance. Tyroleans are known to be kind but reserved. Not cold—just cautious. Like their towns nestled between cliffs and snow, they seem to have learned to survive in quietude.

Ethile pointed to a stone fountain by the roadside. “That’s mountain spring water. You can drink it directly.”

I took a sip. It tasted pure, as if untouched by the world. I recalled the verse from Al-Anbiya 21:30: wa ja‘alnā min al-mā’i kulla shay’in ḥay—And We made from water every living thing.

Perhaps that’s what the essence of life tastes like: when water doesn’t merely quench thirst, but reminds us we belong to something vast.

Lost in conversation, we didn’t realize we had reached a plateau dotted with a few old houses and a small café by the hill. “Good news,” said Ethile, “we can take the cable car down later.”

“And the bad news?” I asked.

“You’re paying for the coffee and the tickets.”

I laughed, thinking he was joking. But he wasn’t. I’d left my wallet at home. Alamakjang! My face must have changed instantly.

“Relax, I’ll cover it for now,” he said quickly.

For now? Another voice inside me whispered, This is Europe, Benn. Here, even love has a split bill.

“How about it?” he asked, waiting.

I looked at him for a while, still in disbelief. “Alright, I’ll pay you back,” I said finally.

We sat near a wide window. From there, Innsbruck’s valley looked like a gray-green painting slashed by the line of the Inn River. I ordered a latte, Ethile a cappuccino. He pointed outside. “That’s the river that gave this city its name. Innsbruck means ‘bridge over the Inn.’”

I sipped the coffee. Strong, a bit acidic, yet warm down the throat. I remembered our morning talk about coffee—about South American beans they roast themselves, about prices that reminded me of the past, when coffee symbolized generosity, not luxury. In Europe, coffee has become identity—like books for writers. In every cup lies a trace of colonial history, racial encounters, even global economic conflicts.

I said, “Funny, isn’t it? Coffee once brought colonizers to our lands. Now, coffee brings people like me here—searching for the same taste.”

Ethile smiled. “The world never moves in straight lines. It turns, like coffee beans in a grinder.”

When we rode the cable car down, rain started again. The cabin swayed gently, the sound of steel on steel breathing like the mountain’s sigh. Ethile pointed outside. “That’s the river we protect in the national park. Sometimes I feel I know nature better than I know people.”

“Maybe because nature doesn’t pretend,” I said.

He chuckled softly, but didn’t look at me. We both stared out, letting silence speak more than words. In that quiet, I felt we were back on that train six years ago—two strangers who knew something was growing, but didn’t need to name it.

When we reached the bottom, the fog began to thin. We walked toward Innsbruck’s old town. Baroque buildings in pastel hues lined the riverbanks. Church towers rose in the distance, their bells ringing softly. We ran to the next church for shelter.

Ethile looked toward the altar. “I’ve always liked places like this. Quiet, but not lonely.”

I replied, “Like some kinds of human relationships.”

We laughed together. Outside, the rain had softened. The city seemed to dissolve us into its gentle melancholy—not sad, but soothing.

We took the bus home that evening. I only then learned that in Innsbruck, people rarely buy bus tickets. “You’re supposed to,” he said, laughing, “but we never do. It’s sort of an open secret.”

Back at the house, I handed him two ten-euro notes and one five. “For the coffee and the bus.”

He shook his head. “That’s too much.”

Too much? I thought he’d say, Ach, don’t bother, Benn, I was only joking earlier. But no—he clearly said, That’s too much.I was wrong. This was Europe, not Asia, and certainly not Sumatra.

When Ethile finally accepted the money, there was a quiet kind of tenderness. In that polite, measured European manner, I found another form of kindness—the kind that speaks little, but always leaves room for you.

The City that Holds Melancholy

From the guest room window in Ethile’s house, I gaze at the city of Innsbruck slowly waking. The sky is gray, the mountains in the distance wrapped in snow, and the Inn River flows without a sound. From here, the city looks like a landscape holding its breath—beautiful, yet somber.

There is something strange in the air of Innsbruck. A kind of quiet sadness. Unlike busy Paris or elegant Vienna, Innsbruck seems to stand between two worlds: between the grandeur of history and the humility of nature. Here, everything “European” feels more honest—not wrapped in image-making, not forced into joy.

Walking through the city center, I notice the small things that often escape a tourist’s eye: the way locals slightly bow their heads when passing one another, the way they wait for the green light even when the street is empty, or the brief smile they give without the need for conversation. Everything seems to hide a quiet loneliness, yet also a respect for order.

Ethile once said, “Austrians live in a balance between order and freedom. But in Innsbruck, the two often collide.” I didn’t understand what he meant at first. But that day, I began to. In this city cradled by great mountains, people are forced to accept limits—and perhaps that’s where they learn humility.

We walked along Maria-Theresien-Strasse, the main street that cuts through the old town. On both sides stood 17th-century pastel buildings: soft yellow, pale green, brick red. At the end of the street, the Golden Roof shimmered dully under the sun.

“That was built by Emperor Maximilian I to watch the parades of his people,” said Ethile. “But now, more tourists photograph it than locals remember its history.”

I looked at it for a long time. “Funny, isn’t it? Humans build things to be remembered, yet forget to remember.”

He gazed toward the river. “Maybe because remembering hurts.”

“But forgetting is more dangerous,” I replied.

We kept walking until we reached Marktplatz, the square now filled with cafés and souvenir shops. In the distance, the bells of Hofkirche rang. Inside that church, bronze statues of Holy Roman ancestors stand around Maximilian’s tomb—silent, proud, but lonely.

I recalled Ibn Khaldun’s words in Muqaddimah: “Civilizations fall not because of enemies from outside, but because they lose meaning within.” Perhaps that’s what has happened to many old European cities—they remain standing, but their stones have lost their pulse of meaning.

Ethile seemed to enjoy wandering without purpose. He stopped in front of a pastry shop. “You’ll love the croissant here,” he said, walking in. I nodded. We ordered pistachio croissants. He sat with his back to the glass wall, which gave me—a seat facing him—a view across the street: a bookstore window full of German and English titles, some about the Tyrolean mountains, others about philosophy.

I imagined us walking in.

The owner, an old man with glasses, greeted us softly: “Grüß Gott.” The words sounded like a short prayer. I browsed through the shelves. In the corner, I found a thin book titled Der Wanderer und der Berg — The Wanderer and the Mountain.

“Perfect for you,” said Ethile.

“Because I’m a wanderer?”

“Because the mountain is here,” he said, pointing outside. “And you’re in dialogue with it.”

I smiled. There was something captivating in the way Ethile spoke—calm, yet leaving an echo in the mind.

“Why don’t you write more about yourself?”

Ah, his words popped the balloon of my reverie. It was as if he meant to say, “Why do you write about me instead?” I could have easily answered, “You’re just a proxy.”

He laughed.

“… so I can place the voices of my journeys into my novel. You understand now?”

Instead of being offended, he laughed again. And that’s what I liked—and have always liked—about him.

Outside, the fog was descending again. The Alps slowly disappeared behind the clouds. I looked toward them and said, “The mountains here are like great secrets. They don’t allow anyone to stare at them for too long.”

Ethile didn’t reply, but I thought I heard his murmur: “Mountains don’t like to be worshipped, Benn. They only want to be understood.”

His words reminded me of a saying by Imam Ali I once read in an old book: “Do not look upon the greatness of the mountain, but contemplate the hand that created it.”

We spent hours walking aimlessly, through narrow alleys connecting centuries-old buildings. Some walls still bore bullet marks from World War II. Ethile pointed to one. “Who knows whose grandfather fought here? But I imagine he seldom spoke of it—or perhaps never healed from the guilt.”

I stayed silent. Every city in Europe carries a kind of inherited wound—not bleeding anymore, yet the pain remains. Innsbruck keeps its wounds politely, like someone who’s learned to smile while still aching.

That afternoon, we sat by the Inn River. Its water ran fast, bluish-green. Across it stood the row of pastel houses iconic to the city. The cloudy sky deepened the melancholy.

I asked, “Why did you choose to live here, not in a big city like Salzburg or Vienna?”

Ethile paused. “Because here, I can hear myself.”

“And Judith?”

“She loves me for that same reason. But sometimes, she’s afraid I’m too silent.”

His answer sparked reflection in me. I imagined a life within such silence—surrounded by mountains, tending plants, writing field notes on alpine flora—while the world outside keeps running after something that doesn’t even have a name.

Innsbruck isn’t just a city. It’s a kind of meditation—a place where people learn to bow their ambitions and make peace with limitation.

We crossed the old bridge that symbolizes the city. Beneath, the river hummed softly. Halfway across, Ethile said, “You know, every time I cross this bridge, I feel as if I’m crossing from the past into the future.”

I looked at the river’s current. “And in between, there’s always water that’s never the same.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Maybe that’s how time works.”

We stopped on the other side. Cold wind blew from the valley. In that silence, I felt something strange again—the kind of intimacy that needs no explanation, yet can never be named. A bromance suspended between two people who know their boundaries, yet can’t entirely resist them.

I looked at his face under the evening light. There was an honesty hard to find in others—the kind that isn’t staged, but born from living close to nature. I realized that, in many ways, Ethile himself was a reflection of Innsbruck: calm, clear, yet holding deep solitude.

Night came. We walked home slowly. Judith was absorbed in her reading. The room was filled with the scent of plants. The three of us talked about light things: the weather, the last book they watched, favorite childhood food. Yet between our words, I felt something growing again—a quiet wish to stretch time, to delay parting.

Innsbruck mirrors human feelings like cold glass—whatever reflects in it appears clearer, but also more fragile.

Before sleeping, I opened the curtain so the darkness of the city could fill the room. From afar, the church bell tolled nine times. In the distance, the sound of the river returned—like an old whisper seeking meaning again.

Ah, in this city, silence is not a sign of loneliness, but nature’s way of reminding humans that there is wisdom in stillness.

Emotional Borderlands

Judith always appeared like sunlight in the fog. Her face was round, her smile unhurried, as if she understood that happiness didn’t need to be loud to be felt. When we first met in that dining room, she greeted me with a mischievous gaze—uninterested in knowing who I truly was, but aware enough that Ethile and I shared a landscape too intricate to be told.

“Now I believe you’re real,” she said, laughing.
I replied in kind, “And I believe you’re not a fiction he invented.”

She laughed again. Her voice was soft, but beneath it trembled a kind of carefulness. Perhaps she was measuring who I was to the man she lived with. I could understand that. Relationships like theirs—two people equally thirsty for meaning yet terrified of loss—always stood at the edge of a communicative abyss.

Ethile never introduced Judith as his “partner,” but as his life companion.
An ambiguous phrase, yet full of respect.
“We don’t need another word,” he once said as we sat by the fireplace. “Judith knows who I am. I know who she is. That’s enough.”

I didn’t respond. Some sentences are better left floating in cold air.

I imagined Judith leading me to the small glasshouse behind their home. That was where she grew orchids, rosemary, mint, and several kinds of wild strawberries.
“Ethile said you like plants,” she said.

“I prefer writing about them to actually caring for them,” I replied.

She laughed. “Of course. All writers are like that. They want to understand things without having to touch them.”

Her words pierced me—distant yet resonant, echoing with honesty. I looked at Ethile, who was cleaning a flowerpot. He wasn’t listening, yet I knew he knew. There was a quiet understanding between us: Judith and I were, in fact, speaking about the same person.

We later sat at the wooden table, sipping the coffee Ethile brewed. “Beans from South America,” he said, as if introducing a piece of art. Its aroma was strong, yet gentle on the throat. I stared at the cup for a while, thinking that perhaps coffee and friendship shared something in common: both demanded the right temperature to keep their flavor.

Judith spoke about her work at an environmental research center. She studied ecosystem changes around Hohe Tauern National Park.
“You know,” she said, looking out the window, “the mountains are alive. But people treat them like dead things.”

“Maybe because we fear something quieter than ourselves,” I answered.

She turned to me. “You sound like Ethile.”

I laughed. “Maybe because we’ve both looked at the same mountain—just from different sides.”

Outside, rain began to fall. Its rhythm on the glasshouse sounded like a clock hastening time.

---

That night, after Judith went to bed, Ethile and I sat in the living room. Only the light from the fireplace flickered across the room. On the table, two cups of coffee were already half cold.

“Still writing?” Ethile asked.

“Of course. But not like before. Now I record feelings more than ideas.”

“That means you’re more honest.”

I looked at him. “Or maybe more afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of things I can’t define.”

Ethile chuckled softly. “You’re still the same as on that train—so many words, but rarely an admission.”

“And you still enjoy confusing me,” I replied.

I wanted to tell him that this fear I carried—like all Sapiens—was an ancestral inheritance, a mechanism of survival and existence itself. But the words stayed in my head, never crossing into sound.

The wind brushed against the glass wall, its chill grazing our necks.
“Judith knows I’ve been waiting for you,” he said quietly. “But she also knows I don’t know what I’m waiting for.”

The sentence fell slowly, like ash. I didn’t know what to say. There was a faint tremor in his voice—not seeking answers, only recognition.

“Ethile,” I said softly, “some things are better left unfinished.”

He looked at me. “You speak like a Sufi.”

“I learn from those brave enough to remain silent,” I answered.

Ethile fell silent. Then everything began to float.

I took a deep breath. In that long stillness, only the sound of rain—against glass and roof—was faintly heard. We spoke no more that night. Yet I knew something unspoken had quietly moved through the air.

The next morning, we climbed the small hill behind the house again. The path was slippery; the air bit cold. On the way back, we sat upon a large rock. Below us, mist swallowed the valley.
“Did you know,” he said, “people here believe every fog carries the spirits of mountaineers who never returned home?”

I looked at the mist for a long time. “Then perhaps some of this fog is us.”

He closed his eyes briefly, then smiled. “Don’t make me sentimental, Benn.”

We descended slowly. At the foot of the hill, we met Judith holding a large umbrella. “You two look like children who lost track of time,” she said.

“More like two adults who don’t want to go home,” Ethile replied.

Judith smiled, though her eyes dimmed slightly. I knew behind that joke lay something layered: fatigue and understanding.

We had lunch together. The mood was slightly awkward, but not cold. Judith spoke about work; Ethile about his upcoming trip to Albania. I listened, trying to be a good writer—observing without judging, recording without touching too deep.

That night, I sat in silence for a long while. Outside, snow began to fall lightly. Through the window, I could see the shadows of Ethile and Judith talking—and sometimes laughing softly—in the room whose door they deliberately left ajar. I felt both warmth and a longing for everything connected to home. Suddenly I recalled a line from Al-Ghazali: “True love seeks no reward; it only wishes to witness the beloved’s existence in peace.”

Somehow, that line felt like a prayer whispered directly by the air of Innsbruck.

“Still awake?”

Ethile stood by the doorway, about to close it.

“You’ll need to leave by seven tomorrow,” he said. “The bus to Milan waits for no one.”

Farewell and All that "Never" Finished

“Between every departure and return, the soul learns to measure silence.” Ibn ‘Arabi’s words opened my final morning in Innsbruck. The air was so clear that the ticking clock in the living room sounded like the heartbeat of the house itself. From the bedroom window, I watched the snow fall slowly, covering the back garden and yesterday’s footprints. The world seemed freshly erased and rewritten by a patient hand.

Ethile appeared from the kitchen. “I made you your last cup of coffee in Innsbruck,” he said. His smile, as always, was wide and disarming.

From under the blanket, I replied, “I’ve already prayed and packed. I just want to lounge for a bit. South American coffee would be nice.”

“You’d rather miss your last view of the Alps?” he asked as the coffee grinder began to hum.

His voice was soft but piercing. Five minutes later, I got up and straightened the blanket. In the dining room, bread and black coffee awaited. “Judith’s still asleep?” I asked, sitting down.

He nodded, spreading strawberry jam on his toast.

We ate in silence. No grand conversation, just small remarks about the weather and my journey ahead. But beneath that calm, I knew we were both remembering something we didn’t want to say aloud.

Around six, Ethile rolled out his bicycle after carrying my suitcase outside. Thin snow was still falling. The wet street reflected the warm glow of houses along Hötting. From the third floor, I gazed at the small city: slanted rooftops, pastel walls, the Inn River flowing quietly beneath an old bridge.

Innsbruck means “bridge over the Inn.” A simple name, but rich in meaning. Since the 15th century, travelers crossed here—from north to south Europe—carrying silk, spices, and hope. Here, Emperor Maximilian I built the Hofkirche, a grand church with bronze statues of his ancestors. And here, centuries later, I too crossed—not with goods to trade, but with memories to bear.

I remembered reading about a novel set on Maria Theresa Street, the main road that holds traces of many civilizations: Roman, Bavarian, even remnants of the Ottoman presence in this valley. “Innsbruck is a city of passage,” a museum guard once told me. “Whoever comes here will one day leave. But somehow, their traces always remain.”

That line—from a novel whose title I’ve forgotten—echoed in my mind as we stood at the city bus stop. Soon, I would board the bus bound for Milan.

We faced each other amid clouds of cold breath. The bus hadn’t arrived. Judith hadn’t come along, but sent a message through him. “Tell him I wish him more good stories,” Ethile whispered.

He looked at me for a long time, perhaps searching for words that needed no translation. “You know,” he said, “I really want to read the opening of your novel—the train scene between Hallstatt and Bled—in English. It feels like rewatching a life that was never really ours. Come on, don’t wait for a professional translator. You can do it.”

I chuckled. “Funny how words can turn the ordinary into the eternal.”

“And how eternity can feel so brief,” he replied.

We fell silent. From a distance, the hum of the bus engine approached, slicing through the fog. I wanted to say so much—about how this meeting confirmed what I already knew: some people appear not to stay, but to mark a chapter of your journey. But I only looked at him, as if that were enough.

“Ethile,” I finally said, “thank you for not changing.”

He smiled. “I have changed. But maybe, in front of you, I become who I used to be.”

The bus stopped. We hugged—short, but warm.

“Like a dream comes true,” I said, repeating the words from six years ago.

“Only this time, the dream ends here,” he replied, laughing softly. “Or maybe it’s just beginning.”

I got on the bus. Through the window, I saw him standing by his mountain bike, his jacket dusted with snow. He waved, then walked away. Slowly, his figure vanished into the mist and the old buildings.

---

As the bus headed toward Milan, I watched the landscape blur by—Tyrolean valleys, long tunnels, frozen fields. Yet Ethile’s shadow clung to the window, refusing to leave.

I opened my notebook and wrote:

“Some cities do not ask to be understood. They only want to be passed through—consciously.”

Then another line:

“Innsbruck is not about the meeting of two people. It is about the space left unspoken, filled instead by understanding.”

I paused, gazing outside. Thin snow was falling again, covering paths, bridges, and rail tracks. The world seemed to slow down. Perhaps it’s true—I am no one in his life but words. Yet isn’t every sincere word the most enduring form of a fleeting feeling?

As we neared the Italian border, the sun broke faintly through the clouds. I turned on my phone and saw a message from him:

Take care, Benn.

I smiled to myself. Instead of replying, I typed into my Notes: “There are two kinds of journeys—those that make you forget who you are, and those that help you remember.” And I knew exactly where Innsbruck belonged.

In Milan, I walked from the bus terminal to a small inn near Porta Garibaldi. The city was louder than I’d imagined—crowded streets, bright lights, music spilling from cafés. Yet in the midst of all that noise, I felt quiet inside.

I wrote again in my notebook: I close my eyes. Outside, church bells toll. I gaze at the darkening sky and think how strange this world is—how a brief encounter on a train can become a friendship spanning years, distance, and language.

In my mind, I repeated the line from Ibn ‘Arabi I’d read weeks earlier in the Leiden library: “Between the known and the unknown lies love; a field where intellect kneels.”

And perhaps that’s where Ethile and I once stood: in the field between knowing and not knowing, between desire and courage, between the past and possibility.

Hours later, in that Milanese room, I caught my reflection in the small wall mirror. Something had changed in my face—not age, but a kind of new calm.

I remembered what Ethile had said while we hiked the hill yesterday: “Still water doesn’t mean it doesn’t move. It just knows where it’s flowing.”

And that night, I knew: this journey wasn’t about finding him, but finding the version of myself I’d left behind six years ago on the train between Hallstatt and Bled.

Innsbruck was only a bridge. And like every bridge, it was meant to be crossed, not inhabited. Yet every bridge holds footprints that time cannot erase.

I turned off the light, letting darkness fill the room. In that stillness, I thought I heard a distant voice—maybe just imagination—saying: “Don’t rush to forget. Some memories deserve a slower goodbye.”

I smiled.
Then slept.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt at peace—without needing to understand everything. (*)

Innsbruck-Milan-Lubuklinggau, May–October 2025

Note: The Indonesian version of the essay above can be read here.