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Grey fog is drifting over the road again like a memory that stubbornly refuses to dissipate. A request is made to the gipsy to recall that love that was without mist, without unspoken words, and without coldness. The one that warmed even when everything else was freezing. The air is thick, slightly bitter, but there's a strange calmness in that bitter aftertaste. Even if the past doesn't return, it leaves behind clarity: the soul is still searching for one, the very one, the desired one. And as you smoke out the window, as if warding off ghosts, somewhere deep down there's a glimmer of hope that someone will still be able to predict love without the fog.