Melancolía

It smells of warm tiles and something homey, as if time has stuck to the windowsill and doesn't want to leave. The rooms whisper of a presence that is no longer there, but the music tries to convince us that memory is also a form of return. Each chord is like a step on a familiar floor, where the footprints of someone important are still imprinted. Everything around seems a little imperfect, but it's in this imperfection that cosiness lies. When melancholy doesn't weigh you down, but embraces you; when an empty hall suddenly fills with the breath of a melody, and silence ceases to be an enemy. Love here isn't like a flash, but like a soft light that still lingers because without it, the walls would just be walls.