The smell of coffee drifted gently through the lobby of the hotel in Luxembourg, not sharp or intrusive, but soft, like a memory pressing against the edges of thought. It lingered in the air, mingling with polished wood, quiet footsteps, and the faint murmur of conversations spoken in languages I could barely catch. Yet, more than the present, it stirred the past. That familiar fragrance carried me back to a time and place where the world seemed slower, where an old leather chair waited in the corner, worn by years and softened by sunlight that spilled through a half-open window.

I remembered sitting there, watching the curtain breathe in and out with the wind, as if the room itself had a pulse. The smell of coffee would rise, drift, and settle again, carrying with it warmth and a gentle ache. There was a peculiar blend of emotions then, something between longing and contentment. Was it the comfort of belonging to a place, or the yearning for another that no longer existed? That strange, delicate homesickness that comes not from being far away, but from realizing how deeply a moment has imprinted itself on you.

And yet, alongside the ache was a kind of wonder, the excitement of absorbing life as it unfolded in simple gestures: sunlight playing on the wall, the curtain swaying, the earthy notes of coffee deepening the air. It was as though all of existence could be contained in that stillness, in the fragile balance of familiarity and possibility.

Now, standing in the lobby, the same fragrance pulled me across time, binding two scenes into one: the hotel in Luxembourg and that sunlit room with the leather chair. Both belonged to me, both were distant, and both whispered the same truth…that belonging is never fixed to a single place, but to the delicate weaving of memory and presence.

Corina,