To travel through Italy in summer is to collect impressions rather than schedules. It is to remember light more than places, sensations more than itineraries.
When summer is recalled later, it is rarely remembered in full structure. It returns in fragments: light on a wall, a dress in motion, the taste of coffee in the morning air.
That soft, almost fragile shade of blue—the kind that feels light, breathable, infinite. Baby blue. And in that moment, I realized how much I needed it.