Every time fog is forecast, I feel an irresistible call. It is not just the desire to take a photograph, but a deeper need: to lose myself in that suspended atmosphere, where the world hesitates between reality and dream. That morning, I left early, while the village was still asleep and the streets were deserted. I loaded my gear into the car and drove up the winding road towards the hills of Casciana Terme Lari, knowing I was heading to a place that holds light and silence in a unique way.
I arrived near the Sanctuary of Madonna dei Monti. When I switched off the engine, I paused for a moment. The air was cold and motionless, almost restrained. No voices, no sounds, only the compact silence of the countryside at dawn. As I walked towards the clearing, a row of pines rose before me like natural guardians, forming a living portal. Beyond their trunks, the view opened wide across rolling hills, rising and disappearing beneath drifting veils of fog.
The grass was wet with dew, and my steps left faint marks on the damp ground. The fresh scent of earth mixed with the resin of the pines. To the side, a wooden cross stood quietly against the landscape—simple, discreet, and yet giving the place an intimate, contemplative presence. Nothing about it felt forced; it seemed to belong, to converse naturally with the hills, the slow-growing light, the stillness of the air.
And then I saw it. In the distance, resting on a ridge, a rural dwelling emerged from the fog. Its cracked walls and weathered roof carried the weight of time. It was not abandoned, yet it showed no signs of recent life. Its strength lay not in what it revealed but in what it withheld, in the silent memory it seemed to guard.
I prepared carefully, choosing the composition without hesitation. I wanted the curves of the hill to lead the eye to the house, the fog to suggest rather than conceal. I looked for the essential: light, form, breath. Adjusting my settings, I waited for the scene to settle into balance. When I finally pressed the shutter, I held my breath. For a moment, time itself seemed to slow. The photograph imprinted itself in me first, and only then in the camera.
I lingered there, simply watching. The silence felt alive, almost like a voice. A distant tractor could be heard faintly across the fields, but it seemed more like a memory than a presence. A gentle nostalgia rose within me—yet I could not say for what. Perhaps for places I had never lived in, or times that were never mine. But it was there, carried by the fog, flowing between me and the landscape.
The longer I looked, the more I understood: this house was not just a subject. It was a guardian. A dwelling of memory, anchored in the folds of a newborn day. It asked for nothing, demanded nothing—yet it remained, still and observing, embodying the endurance of places that outlast us.
As the light shifted and the sun climbed higher, the fog began to lift. The outlines of the house grew sharper, and the hills unfolded into full view. Yet the sense of suspension did not vanish. Even as I prepared to leave, I knew that image would stay with me. I also knew that if I returned, the dwelling would still be there, unchanged—an enduring presence in a world that rarely holds still.
That photograph became more than a visual memory. It was an encounter—a moment when a landscape chose to reveal itself, when silence, light, and time aligned. And I had the privilege of being there, to witness, to listen, and to preserve its essence in a single frame.
