Brussels, Belgium

Brussels is the kind of place where a single street lamp can change the flavour of the night. 

Caramel and smoke, warm and slightly bitter, as if the air has been steeped in stone and old stories.

When that light arrives, I can feel the city unclench. The tension of the day loosens without ceremony, like a soft exhale you only notice because you did not realise you were holding your breath. Corners become gentler. The pulse of movement slows.

This is the hour when walls remember the hands that built them. You start to notice the joins, the decisions, the accumulated weathering that turns architecture into something closer to memory. And somehow the flowers forgive the traffic. Not because the noise disappears, but because the light reframes it. 

It makes space for tenderness in places that usually feel functional.

In moments like this, light becomes a small promise kept.  Proof that softness survives in the seams of the street, in the gaps between urgency and routine. 

It is a reminder that a city is not only what it demands from you, but what it offers back when you slow down enough to accept it.

I carry that with me. Not as a snapshot, but as a calm that lingers long after the footsteps fade. The kind of calm that follows you into the next day, quietly altering how you look at corners, leaves, and the simple act of noticing.

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