He watched the crowds. Tourists laughed near the singing fountains, their voices drowned out by the steady, muffled thump-thump of the Yerevan Beats production. To them, the city was a postcard of ancient churches and brandy. To Artak, it was the place where she had said goodbye, her silhouette fading into the shadow of the Opera House until she was just another ghost in the fog.

The pavement in Yerevan doesn’t just hold heat; it holds memories of every soul that has ever paced its pink tuff stone.

Artak sat on a rusted bench in Republic Square, the city lights blurring into long, neon smears against the evening drizzle. In his ears, the track by Coldsteeze looped—a rhythmic, haunting pulse that felt less like music and more like a heartbeat slowing down in the cold [1, 2].

Every time the bass dropped, Artak felt that familiar pull—the gravity of a place you love but can no longer stand to be in. The track didn’t have words because it didn't need them; the melody was the plea itself. Don’t leave me here. Don’t leave me in the silence of these stone streets. Don’t leave me to face the winter alone.

The beat was skeletal. A lo-fi hiss acted as the wind whistling through the Hrazdan Gorge, while the melancholic piano chords felt like heavy footsteps echoing in an empty apartment. It was the sound of a city that was both home and a cage.

As the track faded into its final, distorted hum, Artak stood up. He adjusted his collar against the chill, the ghost of the beat still vibrating in his chest. He began to walk, not toward home, but toward the lights of the Cascade, hoping that if he climbed high enough, he might finally hear something other than the echoes of what he’d lost.