Shayan Afzal

There are moments in travel when the world tilts just slightly, and everything ordinary seems touched by something eternal. Walking through the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal, past the hum of bustling cafes and the charm of centuries-old buildings, I found myself standing before the Notre-Dame Basilica. Its façade, an imposing blend of Gothic Revival grandeur, seemed to breathe a stillness into the lively surroundings.

I paused there, transfixed by its twin towers rising against the sky, each spire seeming to stretch beyond the limits of sight, as if defying time itself. There was something in the weight of those stones, something in the way their shadows fell that felt heavy with memory.

Stepping inside, I was greeted not by silence but by a symphony—a soft chorus of whispers, distant footsteps, and the faint hum of the Casavant organ echoing through the vaulted arches. Above me, the ceiling soared into a twilight-blue expanse studded with gold stars, like a fragment of heaven drawn into the realm of mortals. Light poured through stained-glass windows, spilling onto the floor in fractured hues—an interplay of color and shadow that felt alive.

What struck me most were the stories embedded within these walls. The windows didn’t simply offer scenes of divine narrative; they told the tale of Montreal itself. Here was a city chronicled in glass, its history interwoven with faith and art. Each detail felt deliberate, as though the architects had known that one day a traveler might stand in this very spot and marvel.

As I wandered closer to the altar, its grandeur rendered me momentarily still. Rising like a monument to devotion, it gleamed with an otherworldly brilliance. Sculptures of saints stood solemnly, their gazes steady, their forms impossibly detailed. I couldn’t help but think of the countless hands that must have carved, painted, and polished this space into being, their artistry a quiet offering to something greater than themselves.

The organ called out again, its notes filling the space like waves rolling through a vast ocean. I let the sound wash over me, closing my eyes and imagining the generations of footsteps that had tread these stones, each leaving behind an echo of their own stories. There was something humbling about it, as though the basilica wasn’t simply a building but a keeper of time itself.

Outside, the golden light of the evening softened the streets. I lingered a while, reluctant to leave the stillness behind. Travel often feels like a search for something indefinable—a moment, a feeling, an understanding. Standing there, under the shadow of the Notre-Dame Basilica, I felt as though I had found a fleeting glimpse of it.