The Lisbon Summit Opens
The sea was loud in Lisbon. Not in a romantic way. Not in a postcard way. In a present way—like it had a vote. Its breath pushed through the shutters of the old maritime exchange hall in slow, salt-edged pulses, making the hanging lanterns sway just enough to feel intentional. High ceilings. Stone columns worn smooth by centuries of commerce and argument. Flags that looked too clean against all that age, like someone had tried to sanitize history. Neutral ground didn't mean gentle. It meant witnessed. The floor beneath my boots wasn't polished marble. It was stone that had held ship manifests and war declarations. A place built for men to smile while they negotiated hunger. I could taste the room. Not literally—though the air did taste faintly of brine—but in the way wolf politics
- Writer
