I woke up early, knowing my destination: Via delle Mandriacce, Orciano Pisano, Pisa, Italy. It was five in the morning, and I stopped at one of the few bars open at that hour. The smell of coffee mingled with the murmurs of hunters. I was the only one not going hunting, but over time, we had grown accustomed to each other. From them, I learned to appreciate that landscape. Their stories spoke of mist, waiting, and silence. Perhaps that was why I kept coming back.
Outside, it was still dark, but the moisture in the air hinted at something more. As I reached the hill, I realised the fog was with me. The sky was clear—there wasn’t a cloud in sight. I walked a bit, searching for a familiar spot where I hoped something would happen. And it did.
At the first light of dawn, the fog rested over the hills like a thin veil, dissolving and transforming them. Every curve became a shade as lines vanished, leaving only the essential. In that limited visibility, there was everything.
Two aligned trees emerged from the haze, appearing as one, like a natural double exposure, a fragile and precise apparition, balanced between light and suspension. I set my camera steady on the tripod, selecting a composition that allowed the emptiness to speak, letting light and mist define the outlines. I used my Canon 5D Mark IV with the Canon EF 70-200mm f/4L USM lens. I set the shutter speed to 1/30 sec at f/8, a choice made to maintain sharpness and depth while respecting the faint, whispered light that asked for attention rather than strength.
I didn’t want to intrude; I only wished to listen. The sound of the shutter got lost in the fog as my gaze remained fixed on that silent echo.
At that moment, I understood that I was not always searching for a photograph. Sometimes, I was searching for a dream. And on certain days, when everything aligned—light, form, time—that dream left behind an echo, and I followed it.
