The day is warm, wrapped in soft light and gentler air. By the time I leave the apartment, the clock is nudging past noon, but I don't mind. Sundays are meant for slowness. I walk with no particular rush, just my sketchpad under one arm, phone on my pocket, and my stainless steel tumbler filled with cold mineral water in the other. No headphones, no expectations—just the sound of Laudeith breathing in a quieter rhythm.
Willowglen Park sits on the edge of the city like a tucked-away pocket of serenity. It's not flashy or touristy. Mostly locals come here: families, couples, kids on scooters. I've been here only a few times since moving in with Julia, but it's quickly becoming one of my favorite places. The trees are tall and generous with their shade, and the centerpiece of it all is a lake that reflects the sky with an almost stubborn clarity. Some people bring picnic blankets and sandwiches. Others just sit and think. More people take pictures of the blooming flowers.
