WHERE THE LIGHT LINGERS, BY BAPTISTE PÉRON

There are roads that never hurry to arrive — and that’s just fine. They stretch between two valleys, two thoughts, two breaths. At some point, you stop trying to know where you’re going. You move simply, with the sun as your only rhythm and the trace of the wind as memory.

Where the light lingers — by Baptiste Péron.

Days grow longer, and distances turn inward. There are faces you pass, voices that fade, and silences truer than words. Then comes that solitude you learn to befriend — the one that softens the road and teaches you to listen to the quiet you’ve been carrying all along.

At this time of year, the day settles gently over the world. It smooths its edges, slows the heart, and erases the need to arrive. Then everything becomes simple: the body, the road, the time. You understand that wandering is not escape, but a way of dwelling in slowness.

At the last bend, the light lingers a little longer — as if summer itself wished to stay.