I like going for walks in the western harbour, a newly-built area

Host: The evening light was a sheet of gold melting over the western harbour of Malmö. The air carried the faint scent of saltwater and steel, and the sound of seagulls curled above the calm canals like laughter from another century.

The Turning Torso stood in the distance — a silver spiral reaching into the sky, its shape both defiant and graceful, like a dancer caught mid-turn. Reflections of the building shimmered in the water below, trembling with the rhythm of the breeze.

Jack walked beside Jeeny along the edge of the canal. His hands were in his pockets, his grey eyes moving between the skyline and the horizon. Jeeny’s hair fluttered lightly in the coastal wind, her voice soft, but filled with that quiet conviction that always seemed to ground him.

Jeeny: “Sofia Helin once said, ‘I like going for walks in the western harbour, a newly-built area of Malmö where the old harbour used to be. It is surrounded by canals and waterways and the architecture is modern and innovative — the landmark Turning Torso skyscraper, designed by Santiago Calatrava, is the star of the show.’”

Jack: smirking “A modernist praising modernism. That’s poetic symmetry.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than that, Jack. It’s about transformation. That harbour used to be industrial — cranes, rust, shipyards. Now it’s clean, geometric, alive. A second life.”

Host: The sun hung low now, painting the glass buildings in honey and shadow. The water caught every color — amber, cobalt, rose. The whole city seemed to be remembering itself in a new form.

Jack: “Funny how cities do that — erase their past with architecture and call it rebirth.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe it’s not erasure. Maybe it’s forgiveness.”

Host: He stopped walking. The wind ruffled his hair, carrying a smell of iron and the faint sweetness of distant bakeries.

Jack: “Forgiveness? That’s a generous way to describe concrete and glass.”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness as in renewal. Think about it — this place used to represent labor and loss, the old world of men breaking their backs in cold winters. Now it represents creativity, vision, innovation. The same soil — but a new spirit.”

Jack: “Or the same cycle — we build, we abandon, we build again. Maybe that’s not rebirth. Maybe that’s just memory pretending to evolve.”

Host: A couple passed them, laughing, their voices bouncing off the water. A small boat drifted by under a low bridge, its wake rippling outward like a sigh.

Jeeny: “You sound like you don’t trust progress.”

Jack: “I don’t trust its motives. Every ‘modern’ thing comes with an ego attached. Architecture used to be shelter. Now it’s statement.”

Jeeny: “But the Turning Torso isn’t ego. It’s motion made solid. It’s art pretending to be practical. Look at it — it twists like it’s trying to remember how to dance.”

Host: They both turned to look at the building again. It rose against the sky like a question mark — soft, silver, and human in its imperfection.

Jack: “I’ll give you that. It’s less of a monument, more of a metaphor.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the story of Malmö itself — turning, transforming, refusing to stay still.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes cities more human than we admit. They carry our contradictions — progress built on the bones of memory.”

Host: The wind carried their words across the canal, scattering them into the water. Jeeny sat on the edge of a low concrete wall, her feet dangling just above the surface. The water below reflected her like a softer version of herself — blurred by light, unbound by gravity.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about this place? It’s not afraid of silence. Even with all this glass and steel, it feels like it remembers the sound of waves against wooden docks.”

Jack: quietly “You think cities remember?”

Jeeny: “I think they do. Through people. Through habits. Even through the spaces we rebuild. You can take away the factories, the cranes — but you can’t erase the spirit that once worked here.”

Host: The sun dipped lower. The Turning Torso now glowed with reflected fire — its shape divided into blocks of orange and gold.

Jack: “So you see this as a kind of poetry — a city rewriting its own story.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every city is a writer. The streets are its sentences. The buildings are its punctuation.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And the people?”

Jeeny: “The people are the verbs — the ones that give everything motion.”

Host: The air grew cooler. The lights along the canal flickered on — soft, amber halos reflecting in the still water.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. This place feels alive, but almost… too perfect. Like someone edited out the flaws.”

Jeeny: “Perfection’s just peace, Jack. And peace always feels unfamiliar to people who come from struggle.”

Jack: “That’s poetic — and a little bit cruel.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But look around you. Everything here — every brick, every bridge — is a collaboration between what was and what could be. That’s the beauty of modern architecture. It’s not pretending to be eternal. It’s just saying, I’m here for now, and I’ll be beautiful while I last.”

Host: The sky turned violet. The first stars began to blink into existence. A light drizzle fell — fine, silvery, caught in the glow of the streetlamps.

Jack: “You think that’s why Helin loves walking here? Because it’s not about nostalgia, but acceptance? The idea that beauty can exist even after decay?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what makes this place healing. It’s not haunted — it’s humbled. The water doesn’t judge what’s been built on its edge; it just reflects it.”

Jack: “And people — we could learn something from that.”

Host: She smiled, the kind of smile that could disarm even cynicism.

Jeeny: “That’s why she said it’s surrounded by canals. Water listens. It forgives. It carries the memory of the old harbour and the pride of the new one — together. That’s art, Jack. The quiet merging of opposites.”

Jack: softly “Then maybe the Turning Torso isn’t just architecture. Maybe it’s confession.”

Jeeny: “A confession written in steel — that even what’s been twisted still has beauty.”

Host: The rain softened, the canal now alive with ripples that caught every shimmer of city light. They both sat in silence, the moment pausing between nostalgia and renewal.

Jeeny: “You know, every city has its sound. Paris has whispers. New York has heartbeat. Malmö has reflection.”

Jack: “And what about us?”

Jeeny: “We’re just two notes trying to find our harmony in it.”

Host: The Turning Torso gleamed one last time before the clouds swallowed the moon. Around them, the city exhaled — calm, quiet, content.

And as the night settled, Sofia Helin’s words echoed softly through the air — not as a travel memory, but as a truth about creation itself:

That beauty is not born from what we build,
but from the spaces we reclaim,
where the old world ends,
and the new one learns to breathe.