Someone came back to this wall twice. Wrote it once, then wrote it again below, larger, like the first time hadn't landed. A heart, unclaimed. Numbers on the opposite wall that mean something to somebody and nothing to everyone else. Lisbon doesn't clean its walls the way it doesn't clean its conscience everything stays, layered, half legible, waiting for whoever climbs these steps next to decide what it means. The staircase pulls upward into a canopy of trees, the one soft thing in a frame built entirely of hard edges and harder light. Somewhere between the shadow at the bottom and the leaves at the top, the city stops being a place you pass through and becomes a place that's still talking to itself, one tag at a time. Part of the Frame Zero series. 1/1.