The sky in September begins to fall inward. Light pools at odd angles. The world ripens, then slowly lets go. And somewhere in that hush (before the fire-coloured trees, before the air slips colder) blue begins to feel right again.
Not the blue of spring. Not the hopeful kind. But a deeper, more deliberate shade – navy like ink, like night, like thought. Chambray flits along the skin, familiar as breath. Denim holds warmth in its weave, something practical, unspoken. You walk into a morning already half-gone, wearing what makes sense. No spectacle. No performance. Just texture and tone and the weight of being.
Blue does not shout over the season. It listens. It absorbs the gold, the grey, the dampness in the air. It stays.
