It’s just an ordinary afternoon… or at least it seems so.
The sun has softened; it no longer burns, it only caresses with its weary light. Swallows cut across the sky with swift wings, tracing fragile arabesques above an air that waits for rain. I can feel it: the sky is holding its breath, like a child about to cry who still hasn’t found the tears.

At the roadside, the wild roses gleam in bright red, simple and bold, like ornaments forgotten by summer. I feel like touching them, but I stop — as if I know they are more than mere fruits; they are signs, milestones of time, messengers of the autumn that lurks nearby.

The forest in the distance stands silent, solemn, like an old man who has seen too much and marvels at nothing anymore. And yet, it slowly begins to change its face. Green flows into yellow, yellow into russet. It seems to me that the forest is breathing differently, deeper, preparing itself to enter another story.

And me? I sit here, in an afternoon that was not supposed to be any more special than the rest. And yet, something in this stillness, in the red of the wild roses and in the wings of the swallows, makes me feel that I am witnessing an unrepeatable moment. An ordinary instant, quietly elevated to the rank of miracle.