March moves through the streets in a slow, luminous thread. Sunlight lingers longer on the backs of coats, on the quiet swell of skin beneath careful touch.
January has a way of slowing everything down; the light slips across walls, disappears early, leaving rooms and hours to fold inward. It wraps itself around us, those short days fading to long evenings, the world outside reduced to silhouettes and candlelight.
There is something quietly radical about the blue button-up shirt. Once the domain of uniforms and school dress codes, it has long since slipped those confines, becoming a symbol of understated confidence.