quiet finds

There’s a version of the High Line in Paris. Elevated, quiet, green. I walked it in the morning, coat open, the air still soft from sunrise. The path snakes behind Haussmann buildings and through light-drenched parks, dotted with sculptures like the one I passed here—figures stilled mid-motion, half-remembered.

I was there for a few days, mostly to wander. I went to flea markets and tucked-away design shops, collecting small things for the house. A mirrored tray, a hand-thrown vase, a set of linen napkins with delicate stitching around the edges. Pieces that didn’t match but somehow belonged together. I packed them between sweaters in my carry-on.

I love that feeling—of being somewhere else and thinking about home. Walking with no plan and still somehow moving closer to the kind of space I want to live in. Slow and deliberate. A little offbeat. Made of memory.

-L