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But—ugh—some twat scrapped his for parts, pissed me off big time. “You’re tearing apart a dream!” I yelled in my head, channelin’ Nolan’s vibes. Still, the Escort’s a survivor, mate, tough as a badger. Saw a souped-up one, bright red, exhaust growlin’—surprised me, like, whoa, this ain’t no sleepy hatchback! Prolly some lad thinkin’ he’s Dom Cobb, stealin’ secrets on the motorway.

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You gotta visit the old town center too. Narrow lanes and little hidden courtyards, like behind Rue des Mémoires, are my secret therapy spots. They’re so tucked away they almost feel like a private room in my brain where silent memories get to play out. It’s like every crack in the pavement holds a secret that only the heart can decipher.

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