Lost in Prague

Lost in Prague

Written by shah Zai

“It was supposed to be just a weekend trip.”

That’s what Arman kept telling himself as he stood under the faded green dome of Prague’s main train station, holding a dead phone and a crumpled city map. He had wandered too far from his hostel, and now—somewhere between the Old Town Square and the Vltava River—he was completely, utterly lost.

Twenty-two and fresh out of university in Islamabad, Arman had spent the last month backpacking through Europe. A gift to himself after completing his final exams. He’d been to Rome, Paris, Munich—and now Prague, the fairytale city of bridges, spires, and secrets.

But Prague wasn’t following the script.

It started in the morning, when he left the hostel alone. His two travel companions, Danish and Murad, were too hungover from last night’s absinthe adventure to join him. “I’ll just explore on my own,” Arman had said, grabbing a map and camera.

He’d wandered into the Old Town, past Gothic churches and cobblestone alleys that looked like pages from a history book. He took pictures of Astronomical Clocks and painted street performers. For lunch, he tried trdelník—a cinnamon-sugar pastry spiraled over fire—and thought, “This is the Europe I imagined.”

But by late afternoon, dark clouds moved in.

And Arman realized he had no clue where he was.

No Wi-Fi.

No charger.

No friends.

Just him, a language he didn’t speak, and the growing echo of his own thoughts.

He ducked into a nearby antique bookstore to get out of the rain. It smelled like time—leather, ink, and something almost magical. Behind the counter stood an old Czech man with silver glasses and a hat too large for his head.

“Lost?” the man asked in accented English.

Arman nodded, smiling nervously.

“Everyone who finds this shop is,” the man added, pointing to a shelf. “Look around. Find yourself something.”

Arman wasn’t sure what he meant, but wandered between the stacks anyway. He wasn’t much of a reader, but something compelled him to stay. His fingers brushed against a slim, worn book titled: The Stranger and the City.

No author. No date.

He opened it to the first line:

“To be truly found, one must first be lost where no one is looking.”

It gave him goosebumps.

The shopkeeper let him sit there for an hour, reading silently as rain tapped against the window. The book followed the story of a traveler who arrives in a foreign city and forgets who he is. Each chapter, he meets people who show him parts of himself—a painter, a musician, a child.

By the time Arman reached the end, the rain had stopped.

“You keep it,” the old man said with a smile. “That book finds who it needs.”

Back outside, Prague looked different. Not because the rain had stopped, but because Arman wasn’t in a rush anymore. He wandered not to return, but to discover.

He walked past the Vltava, where a violinist played under the Charles Bridge. He sat on the steps and listened. The melody was haunting, like a memory half-remembered.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice beside him said.

It was a girl—blonde hair, sketchbook in hand, British accent. “I’m Clara,” she smiled.

They talked. About travel. About art. About how she’d been stuck in Prague for two months because she “fell in love with being lost.”

For the next few hours, they wandered the city together. No plans. No maps. Just curiosity.

She showed him Lennon Wall, where layers of graffiti sang messages of peace and rebellion. They tried roasted sausages in a tiny alley cart. At sunset, they climbed to Letná Park and watched the sky burn above the city’s skyline.

“You know,” Clara said, “Prague doesn’t show you what you’re looking for. It shows you what you’ve forgotten.”

By the time Arman found his hostel again, it was well past midnight. Danish and Murad were asleep. His phone was still dead. But something inside him had shifted.

The next morning, he woke early and returned to the bookstore—but it was gone.

No shop.

No sign.

Just a boarded-up window with a flyer that read:

“Lost? That’s where the story begins.”

One year later, Arman stood at an art gallery in Lahore. It was his first solo photo exhibit.

The title?

“Lost in Prague.”

His photos weren’t of tourist spots. They were of quiet corners, faces of strangers, blurred reflections in puddles. Moments of stillness. Of searching.

Clara had sent him a postcard last month from Lisbon. On it, a simple message:

“Keep getting lost. It suits you.”