There is a particular feeling to the mountains at the end of August. The mornings can still be warm enough to feel like summer, while a sudden cloud or an afternoon shower reminds you that the season has already begun to turn. We noticed it mostly while walking. We spent many of these days on the paths around the house, sometimes under a hot sun, sometimes with rain coming in over the pines. The landscape seemed to change slightly from one walk to the next. Nothing dram

By midday, the August heat had settled onto our skin, the kind of heat that makes everything move a little more slowly. It was 2022, and we were on Lesbos, driving towards another bay with no particular plan for the afternoon. We had taken our time over breakfast, already softened by the slowness of being on holiday, and were simply following the road. Then we noticed a narrow road disappearing between tall reeds. Where does that go?

There is a moment when a thing is exactly what it was meant to become; not before, not after, but held in that narrow, unrepeatable space between fullness and change. We rarely name it while it’s happening. By the time we notice, it has usually already begun to pass. August feels like that moment stretched a little longer than usual. This year, that feeling shows itself in small ways.