Brussels

Brussels in autumn doesn’t ask for your attention. 

It earns it in layers. It’s not the kind of city that jumps out with grandeur.

It unfolds slowly, like a cigarette lit in the corner of a quiet bar, smoke curling toward a window cracked just enough to let in the gold of a dying afternoon.

The trees around the Atomium had turned, some overnight it seemed. Gold, copper, wine-dark red. 

A palette you’d expect on an oil painting or a designer’s scarf, not scattered across a park beneath a giant chrome daydream from the fifties.

​You walk through it and feel like you’re caught between the future they imagined and the autumn we actually got. 

That’s Brussels. Always a little off-center. 

Almost familiar.

The sunsets here are serious. Not dramatic, composed. The kind of light that rests gently on rooftops and slips across the canal like a secret. 

I watched the sky lean orange, then purple, then into that electric blue that only lasts ten minutes and makes even graffiti look holy. 

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