Lavender
You don’t expect it.
And then the landscape shifts.
Just outside Tuscany, the fields open up — rows of lavender stretching farther than you thought possible, a quiet wash of purple across the land.
It’s not loud.
It doesn’t demand attention.
It holds it.
The color is soft, but constant. The scent carries in the air, subtle at first, and then unmistakable. You walk through it slowly, almost without thinking, the rows guiding you forward.
There’s a stillness to it.
Ordered.
Calm.
Almost regal in the way it settles over everything.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing out of place.
You don’t do anything here.
You just stand in it for a moment — and let it stay with you.