A photograph taken in passing at the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. Three Flemish paintings on a gray wall: a wide peasant feast crowded with figures at the top, a dark hanging-carcass still life on the lower left, a market scene with a poultry seller on the lower right. One of them — the market scene — is confirmed Pieter Aertsen from the wall label. The others are probably from the same orbit: Aertsen, or Beuckelaer his nephew, or one of the other Antwerp painters working in the same genre tradition in the mid-sixteenth century.

Some cities look still from a distance, as if time itself slows around their rooftops. Vienna is one of those places. Stand before Stephansdom — its towers sharp against the sky, its stones patterned like woven shadow — and it feels less like architecture and more like memory made solid. The cathedral doesn’t just belong to Vienna; it watches over it. And once, long before cafés and waltzes and imperial ceremony became part of its rhythm, those stones stood witness to a day when the city came terrifyingly close to disappearing.