Camera Log 09 — The Spiral and the Double: The Third Picture

A double on the stairs. A message she never wrote.

Lisbon. Late week. The light feels heavy, the days out of sync.

According to her notes, a week went by after the Roman Theater.

She writes about tests, work, anxious students. And about herself, going through the motions on autopilot. But the pull hadn’t stopped. In the middle of all that noise, one thing kept surfacing: Panorâmico de Monsanto.

She says it came from a guide’s whisper. But also that it was already there, echoing before she even heard it aloud.

The dreams started getting worse around the same time. Repeating symbols: spiral staircases, a formless sky, windows that seemed to breathe. She climbs and climbs. And then hears her own voice — but not quite her own — asking:

“Quantas vezes já?”
How many times now?

She always wakes up exhausted.
As if her body stayed behind…
…but she didn’t.

She thought about telling someone.
A friend, Margarida. Someone who always listened.

But how do you explain this?
That the camera is speaking. That it's leaving messages. That it’s leading her somewhere.

She imagined how it would sound.
Burnout. Delirium. Drugs, maybe. Or just too much time alone.
She wrote: Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s all just in my head.

In the end, she didn’t tell anyone.
"Not yet," she wrote.
Instead, she stayed with the notebook. "It can hold everything, even the things you can’t say out loud."

Red ink in the margin, like a warning:
"Nem tudo que responde deve ser ouvido."
Not everything that answers should be heard.

And then… something changed.

She made a plan.
Wrote everything down. Created a document. Drafted an email.

If she went missing, if something happened, someone had to know.
She addressed it to Margarida.
No explanation. Just… proof. A breadcrumb. A final signal.
The message would be sent after a few days of silence.

At the end of the entry, she circled back to her friend’s name.
She believed Margarida would understand.
That she’d know this wasn’t madness.
Just belief, carried too far.

And at the bottom of the page, she drew something.

An eye, more detailed than the others.
It closely resembles the one she drew on the Moleskine’s first page.
The iris, the shading… it watches something just outside the frame.

Beneath it, one last line in red:

"Um dos olhos vê. O outro lembra."
One of the eyes sees. The other remembers.

It took her a while to go.

She admits it, says she was tired. Afraid.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
And over time, Lisbon itself began to feel like it was pushing her there.
The city, she wrote, was guiding her, like the path had already been drawn before she ever stepped into it.

“Estou aqui ainda?”
“Am I still here?”
The question appears like a crack in her own thoughts.

The Panorâmico was just as she imagined: abandoned, immense, filled with echoes that didn’t seem to come from any specific direction.
Graffiti covered every surface.
The floor cracked beneath her steps.
Light leaked through broken windows in strange, impossible angles.

But the worst part was something else.

She writes about the silence, or the lack of sound.
Only wind. Birds in the distance. Her footsteps.
Even her breath felt out of place inside that building.

Then she saw it: the stained-glass mural.

She says it was impossible to ignore — massive, luminous, vibrating with color.
The figures seemed suspended in time, their arms open, trying to grasp something that wasn’t there.

She stood there for a long time. Just observing.
Then she took a photo.
And waited.

That’s when she heard footsteps on the stairs.

She turned.
And saw herself.

Or thought she did.

The figure was moving slowly. Head lowered. Same coat. Same camera in hand.

But the eyes…
The eyes weren’t hers.

She says the figure looked at her briefly. A blank, neutral gaze.
Then continued climbing, disappearing behind the curve of the staircase.

She ran after it, but when she reached the corner…

Nothing. Empty.
Like no one had ever been there.

She returned to the stained glass.
The Polaroid was ready.

The image showed the mural. The violet-red background. The figure with outstretched limbs, like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.

And in the foreground, spiraling across the photo’s border in her own handwriting:

“Quantas vezes já?”
How many times now?

She says she stood frozen, unable to breathe.
There’s no memory of writing those words.
And she didn’t have a pen.

Still, there it was: her script, her pressure on the page.
But it wasn’t her.

“Era a minha letra. Mas não era eu.”
It was my handwriting. But it wasn’t me.

She starts to spiral, not in fear, but in questioning.
Is all of this repeating?
Is she being led… or overwritten?

She wonders if the camera isn’t showing her what’s there, but what’s beneath it.
Or what was left behind.

“E se há camadas por onde eu já andei sem saber?”
What if there are layers I’ve already walked through without knowing?

Her final pages fracture.
Red ink takes over. The handwriting loosens. The structure dissolves.

“Talvez eu tenha estado aqui antes.”
Maybe I’ve been here before.
“Talvez ainda vá estar.”
Maybe I still will be.

Around those words, other fragments swirl, written like thoughts she didn’t want to finish:

sou eu?
já fui?
quem sou?
quantas vezes já?

She doesn’t sign it.
She doesn’t close the thought.

It just ends, like she stepped out mid-sentence.
Leaving behind only the spiral.

I’m keeping an archive of everything Isabel left behind.
Her Moleskine pages, her notes in the margins of books, fragments of sentences, torn images — all of it.
If there’s a map to follow, it’s there.
Here is the door to Isabel S.’s soul.

Camera Log 08 — The Whisper and the Trail: The Second Picture

One message in her handwriting. Another whispered by a passing group. 
Both pointed the same way.

Lisbon. Early evening. The air still holds light, but everything feels like it’s waiting to shift.

I’ve been quiet.

I still have film.
I haven’t taken any more pictures.
Not yet.

Instead, I’ve been trying to understand.
To follow what Isabel left behind.

Because the more I read, the more I feel it, this isn’t just about images.
It’s about decisions. About how you look, and when.

After the forest, Isabel didn’t stop.
She kept taking pictures. Most came back blank. No messages.

And then, one day, the camera gave her something else.
A new message:
"Segue o trilho."
Follow the trail.

That was it.
No instructions. No map.

Unfortunately, that photo wasn’t among Isabel’s belongings.
I only found her notes about it, not the image itself.
And whatever was in the frame… she never described it.

After that, she started rethinking the first message:

“Procura as alturas onde risos e memórias esquecidos pairam no ar.”
Seek the heights where forgotten laughter and memories float in the air.

She’d chosen the Roman Theatre in Lisbon. It made sense, an old hill, echoes of voices.
But now she wasn’t so sure.

“Às vezes penso que a câmara sabia o que eu ia fazer. Que me deixou tropeçar de propósito.”
Sometimes I think the camera knew what I was going to do. That it let me stumble on purpose.

She brought the camera. Waited for the feeling.
Took the picture.

And when the photo developed, there it was:
"Nos sussurros à tua volta encontrarás o próximo passo."
In the whispers around you, you’ll find the next step.

She read it. And then, just as the frame settled in her hands, she heard them.

A group passed by.
A guided urban art tour.

They stopped near the mural.
The guide mentioned a place. A name: Panorâmico de Monsanto, a ruined viewpoint hidden in the hills above Lisbon.
Street art. Echo chambers. Hidden paintings.

That was the whisper.
The real one.

“O sussurro veio de quem passava, não das pedras.”
The whisper came from those passing by, not from the stones.

It wasn’t in the ruins. It was in the voices around her.
And she wrote it down, as clear as anything:
“É para lá que vou.”
That’s where I’m going.

I’ve created an archive of Isabel’s contents.
There you’ll find everything I know about her — her Moleskine pages, book notes, marked passages, and the scattered pictures she left behind.
Here is the door to Isabel S.’s soul.

Camera Log 07 - Isabel's Trail: The First Picture

First it broke. Then it whispered.

Lisbon. Dusk creeping in, the kind that makes every shadow look like an opening 

 

I found another photo.

Not in the bag. Not with the others.
This one was hidden inside the Moleskine.

It’s the forest, dense, shadowed, quiet.
But the image is broken. A dark seam runs down the middle, like the picture split while it was forming.

No message on the frame. Just that tear and the sense of something left unfinished.

She wrote about it.
Called it her “primeira tentativa” — her first attempt.
The camera still had old film inside, a leftover from someone before her.
So the photo wasn’t really hers. Just residue. Same as mine.

She didn’t like the feeling it gave her.
“As árvores desfocadas, um rasgo escuro no meio. Não gostei da sensação.”
The trees out of focus, a dark tear down the middle. I didn’t like the feeling.

It split itself open and stayed silent.

She changed the film. Brand new. Then she went back, same place, same clearing.
“Voltei ao mesmo sítio. Não sei porquê. Algo em mim queria tentar outra vez.”
I went back to the same place. I don’t know why. Something in me wanted to try again.

The second attempt, clearer. Brighter. The trees almost seem to breathe.
And this time, the message came:

“Procura as alturas onde risos e memórias esquecidos pairam no ar.”
Seek the heights where forgotten laughter and memories float in the air.

She said the words appeared in her own handwriting, but she didn’t remember writing them.

Didn’t even have a pen with her. Or maybe she did, maybe she wrote it and the memory just dissolved.

“A letra é minha. Mas não me lembro. Tenho dormido mal. Sonhos confusos… A câmara parece… desperta agora.”
The handwriting is mine. But I don’t remember. I haven’t slept well. Confused dreams… The camera feels… awake now.

Sometimes I can’t believe this is my life now.
By day, I talk to people, run errands, do normal things.
And then I come home to this, to a camera that feels like it’s dreaming me instead.
Is any of this real? Am I dreaming?
I haven’t said a word to anyone, they’d think I’m losing my mind.
Me - the rational one, always looking for an explanation.
And here I am, lost in something I can’t explain.

I’ve been reading Isabel’s Moleskine. It’s a lot to digest.
When I start, it’s like losing time. Sometimes I spend the whole day circling a single line she wrote.
She was obsessed with spirals, circles, eyes: there are collages scattered through the pages, all staring back.
I’m posting everything in Isabel’s Archive as I go.
Trying to keep my sanity and keep working on my own projects. I still have to pay the bills.
So I update it when I can.

Something split in her forest. Something split in mine.
And the camera… it’s still awake.

Camera Log 06 — First Notes From The Moleskine

No message. Just her eye, open forever.

Lisbon. Late afternoon. Still light, dusty and quiet, like it’s trying not to wake anything up.

I keep looking at that first message the camera gave me. Now I see you.
I keep asking myself: See who? Or what?
Am I crazy? Did it really happen? Can I find an answer in the notebook?

I decided to start reading her Moleskine to find an answer.
A notebook is just paper until you open it. But this one felt like it was already breathing.

I’ve had Isabel’s Moleskine for days, tucked inside my bag, like I could pretend it wasn’t there. I kept telling myself I’d open it when I was ready. But “ready” doesn’t mean much when you’re chasing someone else’s ghosts.

There were five photos. A small black notebook. A book with a few marked pages. All of it packed carefully away, waiting.

That’s how I first found her name.

On the first page of the notebook — a Moleskine — there’s that printed line: “In case of loss, please return to:”
Written there, in pen: Isabel S.
No full surname. No address. Just that.

The cover is hard under my fingers, edges still sharp. Inside, a pressed flower slips loose. I’m not sure if it’s decoration or a memory she wanted to keep alive.

Her notes, her words, all in Portuguese, of course.
It’s not a problem, I’m Brazilian. The language is familiar. But even so… sometimes I wonder if I’m reading her the way she meant. The tone, the rhythms here… they feel different.

She wrote about leaving someone — a boyfriend, fiancé, husband — it’s never clear. About moving into a new apartment, still echoing with someone else’s silence. About being a teacher, maybe. An artist too. She mentions sketches, charcoal under her nails, the weight of unfinished sculptures. Some days she couldn’t sleep, and some nights she pressed flowers into these pages as if to keep them alive for her.

And then, in the middle of all that, she writes about finding the camera.

“Ontem encontrei essa câmara numa gaveta. Escondida, atrás de velhas toalhas. Não sei de quem era. Perguntei ao senhorio, disse que não sabia. Talvez tenha ficado de algum inquilino antigo. Disse-me para ficar com ela.”
Yesterday I found this camera in a drawer. Hidden behind old towels. I don’t know who it belonged to. I asked the landlord, he said he didn’t know. Maybe it was from an old tenant. He told me to keep it.

A leftover from someone else’s life, waiting in the dark for who knows how long. Or maybe it was waiting for her, just like it feels like it was waiting for me.

Some lines repeat, like she was trying to hold herself together one sentence at a time.

I keep coming back to this first page. The eye she drew, wide open, lashes precise, staring straight through.
Next to it: a spiral, a small triangle, and what looks like a tiny Polaroid frame with “????” scratched inside.
At the top, one question in pencil: “Por que?” (Why?)

The first pages feel like someone whispering half-formed confessions. Words that loop back on themselves:

“Não confio na minha memória.”
I don’t trust my memory.

“A câmara está… muda.”
The camera is… silent.

Little drawings scatter the margins, spirals, triangles, a circle with a dot in the middle. Tiny symbols that feel like they’re trying to contain something that keeps slipping out. Sometimes she just trails off into question marks, like she’s asking the same thing again and again.

It feels like she was trying to catch something in the margins, a thought that kept slipping away.

I wanted to see how it looked through the lens. So I took a Polaroid of that first page, just the eye, the marks, the unanswered question. The film developed clear. No hidden message this time. Just graphite and shadows, staring back.

Sometimes the camera stays silent. Maybe that’s part of it: you don’t get to choose when it wants to speak.

I think Isabel knew that. And maybe she started writing it all down because she didn’t trust herself to remember what was hers — and what wasn’t.

I haven’t read every page yet. But there’s something here that feels like it’s still awake.

And I think the silence is beginning to crack.

*I’ve decided to create an archive of Isabel’s contents. There you’ll find everything I know about her — her Moleskine pages, book notes, marked passages, and the scattered pictures she left behind.
Here is the door to Isabel S.’s soul.

Camera Log 05 - It Wrote Back

It used my hand to write the message. But the words weren’t mine.

Lisbon. Late afternoon. The light flat and gray, like it hadn’t made up its mind.

I changed the film.

Four photos in, the pack ran out — quiet, uneventful.
So I loaded a new one.
A fresh strip. My own.

The next photo looked normal.
A quiet Lisbon street, slightly overexposed. Nothing unusual.
But when I looked down, I saw it.

A message. Written on the white frame.
In my handwriting.

Only… I don’t remember writing it.

I know how that sounds. But I didn’t.

The words didn’t feel wrong because of what they said, but because they were already there.
Like the camera had been waiting for me to take the photo,
just so it could hand me something it had already decided.

"Now I see you."

I stared at it for a long time. Told myself I must’ve blacked out.
Must’ve written it without noticing.

But the ink looked aged. Faded at the edges.
Like it had been waiting there before I even touched the shutter.

And that’s when it hit me.

The first four photos I took…
They weren’t mine.
They were hers.

The damage, the distortion, it wasn’t just expired film.
It was residue.

I didn’t take those pictures.
The camera gave them to me.

And now that I’ve fed it something new,
it’s starting to speak in my voice.
Using my hand.

I hadn’t looked inside the bag until now.
But tonight, I opened it.

Five photos. A notebook.
A book with passages underlined in frantic ink.

All of it hers.

And I think it’s time I started listening.