Golden leaves cling to twisted branches above a dirt road winding through the Russian countryside. The air smells of damp earth and woodsmoke. A lone figure walks toward a cluster of wooden houses, their shadow stretching long in the late afternoon light. Winter isn’t far off.
Gondolas glide past Santa Maria della Salute’s white domes, their reflections trembling in the canal. Sunlight catches the church’s baroque curves, turning stone to gold against Venice’s watery blues. The city breathes here—salt air, lapping waves, centuries of footsteps echoing across marble steps.
Golden leaves blanket the village path, their glow mirrored in still water. A wooden church rises above the rooftops, its white walls sharp against the russet trees. The air smells of damp earth and smoke from chimneys. Everything pauses in this quiet moment before winter.