The stone walls are scorched, as if breathing heat from within. Shadows lie heavy and still, and even the wind hides beneath the tiles. The streets are deserted. Siesta feels like a spell — everything living has slipped underground. The city stands still, but the air keeps moving — slowly, gently — as if time itself were exhaling.

Somewhere behind a thin wooden door, someone drops orange peel into water. A bitter, cooling citrus note rises and hangs in the air like a flicker of light. From a narrow alley, through the iron gate of a hidden garden, jasmine drifts in — bright, elusive, fresh, like a shadow brushing against skin. The heat doesn’t vanish. It only pauses, loosens its hold, and allows what is lighter, quieter, to surface.

Orange Peel & Jasmin — a breath that lingers where everything else comes to a halt.