IN THE quiet of autumn evenings, as twilight paints the sky in shades of lavender and gold, there’s a palpable shift in the air. It’s not just the crisper temperatures or the earlier sunsets, but a change in the very rhythm of life. Colette once wrote, “Autumn is the season of nostalgia, of memory, of looking back”. Yet it’s also a time of subtle anticipation, of cocooning ourselves in preparation for what’s to come.
In the golden hours of autumn, when sunlight slants through branches at just the right angle, the world takes on a burnished glow. Virginia Woolf once observed that “autumn seems to cry for a million golden quills to paint it”. Indeed, it’s a season that gilds everything it touches—from the last lingering leaves to the quiet sophistication of a perfectly tailored camel coat in the crisp morning air.