Cologne Black Spires

I remember walking by the Basilica, slowing down without meaning to. The black spires rose with a kind of certainty, vertical lines pulling the eye upward as if the building was still in the act of being built, still reaching. Even in a busy street, it created its own quiet.

The stone looked darker than I expected, almost inked against the sky. It did not feel gloomy. It felt deliberate. There is something about architecture like that which makes you hold your breath for a second, not out of reverence exactly, but out of recognition. Some places ask you to notice them.

Near the steps, a child was blowing bubbles. Small, bright spheres catching the light and wobbling through the air with that accidental grace only bubbles seem to have. One drifted higher than the others, floating halfway up the face of the building before it disappeared. Not falling. Not bursting loudly. Just gone.

It felt poetic, but not in a polished way. More like a reminder that scale can change your sense of time. The Basilica was patient, immovable, made to outlast generations. The bubble was brief, weightless, and entirely unconcerned with permanence. Watching them share the same frame for a moment made the scene feel oddly complete.

I kept thinking about how often we search for meaning in big gestures, in landmarks and declarations, when a lot of what stays with us is small and unplanned. A child exhaling into a wand. A flicker of iridescence. A single bubble rising until it cannot.

That contrast is what I carried with me as I walked on. The spires kept pointing upward, dark and sure. The bubble had already vanished. And still, that was the image that lingered.