I woke up early to make breakfast for the boy, and to wave him off, as he ventured out into the misty morning – the kind that envelops the world into a sleepy hollow. There is something so enchanting about the mist. When I was a kid, I used to think that dragons had been roaming around during the night, battling one another with breaths of blazing fire. The mist was merely the residual of these battles – leftover puffs of victory that lingered in the air.
I remember those cold November mornings in Venice; where the mystical mist would sail alongside fisherman’s boats, before ravenously fleeting through the cobblestone streets, swallowing the locals, along with their sunrise with swirls of sallow smog. There is something so enthralling about Venice in November, when most of the streets are empty, the water still, and an eerie silence surrounds you. Although this emptiness can feel lonesome, the mist floats beside you – like the ghost of a past inhabitant, wanting to keep you company, as you venture out for your morning cappuccino.