Corfu. Where water remembers light.

Sometimes Corfu comes back not as a picture, but as a feeling. Not as a beach, not as a route, not as the name of a bay—but as the color of the water, which is impossible to describe in just one word.

The sea here is never simply blue. In the morning, it's almost transparent, as if light passes right through it. During the day, it's thick and rich, with iridescent turquoise and depth. And as evening approaches, it takes on a softness—as if the day has decided to slow down.

I often recall such moments without people. A boat that takes its time. Houses reflected in the water, not precisely, but a little blurrily—like a memory. Mountains on the horizon that don't oppress, but hold space.

Corfu has always been just like that for me: not loud, not ostentatious, not demanding attention. It doesn't call – it waits.

And if you stop, don't fill your day with plans, don't look for "the most beautiful place," then you suddenly notice how quiet it becomes inside. As if the world, for a moment, stops demanding a reaction and simply allows you to be.

This island taught me to look not at events, but at light. Not at the quantity of impressions, but at their depth. And perhaps that is why it returns so easily—in flowers, in water, in lines that have no beginning or end.

Corfu remains with me not as a point on the map, but as a state to which I can always mentally return.