In the heart of ancient Ionia, near the turquoise coast of modern-day Selçuk, Turkey, lies the ghost of a city once alive with the footsteps of scholars, merchants, and orators—Ephesus. This pH๏τo captures a stretch of the legendary Curetes Street, the grand artery of the Roman metropolis, paved not only with history but with an intricate mosaic of geometric splendor. Between the marble columns and carved facades, a modern citizen of the ruins rests in quiet confidence: a local cat, regal and still, as if it owns what emperors have lost.

The mosaic beneath its paws is no mere decoration. Composed of thousands of tesserae—small, colored stones laid by Roman artisans over 2,000 years ago—it once led noble feet to temples, baths, and libraries. Its hexagonal and starburst patterns, perfectly preserved, mirror the Roman obsession with order and celestial harmony. Each shape tells of wealth, empire, and the aesthetic of eternity, surviving centuries of conquest, earthquakes, and silence. Around it rise columns that once bore the weight of roofs and rhetoric alike.

And yet, in this timeless corridor where grandeur once paraded, a stray cat becomes its quiet guardian. It lounges in imperial repose, unconcerned with the weight of history or the awe of tourists. The cat, indifferent yet somehow reverent, is a living metaphor for the fragility and resilience of civilization. How strange, that in a place once ruled by senators and scholars, it is a feline that best understands peace. Does it dream Roman dreams, or simply sun-soaked stillness?