Oh, my beautiful paris …
Paris does not feel like a city. It feels like a pause.

Time softens here. It drifts across wet pavement, lingers in café windows, disappears into passing faces. I walked without intention, guided only by rhythm — steps, glances, light.

Light behaves differently here. It hesitates, fades, returns changed. In those in-between moments, photographs appear — not created, but found. Small pieces of a day that refuses to explain itself.

These images are not conclusions. They are traces. Of where I’ve been. Of what stayed with me.