In the hush of first light, shadows dissolve into the pale breath of morning. The world is stripped to its essence—lines, echoes, the weight of silence. Paris, and the way Elisabeth’s hands traced unseen constellations in the cold air. The scent of rain clinging to porcelain skin. A city that hums beneath its own reflection. White is not absence, but memory. A whisper left on a mirror. The salt that lingers after a kiss. In the stillness of snowfall, I remember Anna, standing beneath the muted sky of Helsinki, eyes closed, listening to the hush of winter. The language of waiting. The taste of distance. Bodies dissolve into landscapes—Madrid and the silver hush of dawn, Berlin and the phosphorescence of desire. Time lingers in the corners of white rooms, where Sofia once danced barefoot, her laughter soft as dust in the sunlight. And then, the sea. Always the sea. In Lisbon, I walked with Eva along the edge of the Atlantic, tasting the wind. Somewhere between light and longing, between touch and disappearance, the horizon folded into itself. White is not the absence of color. It is the afterglow of everything that ever was. Amidst azure horizons, whispers of desire intertwine with the dance of waves. A journey unfolds, roads leading to secrets of distant lands. Iceland and the red lips of Cathleen. Time becomes an abstract notion, transcending the boundaries of the tangible. Laura. The abyss of her silences. Under starlit skies, we found the wild ocean. In the embrace of mountain breezes and the hush of ancient forests, there she stood. Maria with her rhythmic waves. Ukraine. Silence speaks. Elizabeth. Wrapped in desire, fragrances linger. In the play of lights, be it the soft glow of dawn or the festive sparkle of nights, with the melodies of whiskey glasses, creating a visual sonnet of cityscapes against the sea’s backdrop. Lisbon and Johanna. In the timeless dance of the earth and the endless expanse of the sea, I discovered a lovely symphony. With every step across continents, the sea became not just a vast expanse but a character, a silent witness to tales written in the footprints we left on sandy shores.