Florence, River

Florence. 

You arrive where the water moves like a quiet thought, and the buildings wear their years without apology. Gold and pastel faces lean toward the river, and their reflections nod back, a soft conversation only you can hear. Windows keep watch. 

Arches cradle old stories. Balconies breathe out the scent of soup and early songs. The sky is a gentle gray, an even kindness that asks nothing of you except to slow down. The breeze writes small ripples that edit your worries into something kinder. 

Here you belong to the pause. You feel time loosen. You read the city by its light and its silence, and it reads you back. 

In that exchange you find courage for the next step, and gratitude for the ones that carried you here.

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