omewhere between Avignon and Grasse, where the sun hums low over the hills, summer stirs a secret into bloom. It begins not with fanfare, but with fragrance. A sweetness in the air as if time itself has perfumed the morning. Come June, Provence paints in its rarest hue: lavender, soft as a whispered promise, bold as a forgotten memory coming home.
The fields unfold like purple oceans, each bloom a tiny brushstroke in a masterwork of solitude and scent. They ripple in waves beneath the mistral’s breath, moving as one body, sighing as one heart. It is not merely color, it is reverie. A dream that has taken root, risen, and stretched towards the sun in defiance of ordinary days.
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