Silent steps in the beguinage.
Her steps were almost silent
following a path
shaped
by the devotion of women.
Secluded,
protected
from the world in which they lived,
their days …
shaped
by the quiet routines
of the beguinage.
It left her with
an ambivalent feeling.
While she loved her freedom,
there was something unmistakably comforting
about walking the streets
of the Beguinage in Tongeren.
The old linden trees on the small square.
The walls.
The little doors.
The quiet that seemed to belong to another time.
She loved this place.
She loved how it had managed to keep its secret.
As if the women had left nothing behind
but the walls,
the trees
and
the worn stones beneath their feet.
Even her footsteps,
it seemed,
had already been forgotten.
To walk somewhere
for a while,
leaving no trace
but the moment of being there.
La FlâneuZe