Corfu is not bright. Or at least that’s how I see it. Above it there is a grey veil; not like bad weather, but like memory. A memory that never leaves.

The humidity sticks everywhere: on clothes, on walls, on skin, on thoughts. Nothing is ever completely clean and nothing is ever completely dry. Somehow, I learned to live like that too—with weight, with silences, with things that stay.

At times I feel the streets narrowing. I feel as if the city holds me inside it. Not to protect me, but to constantly remind me that I belong here: to these streets, to these alleys.

I don’t see it as an island. I see it as a city that carries time. Closed doors, windows that have seen many things. Shadows that do not disappear; they simply change position.

And yet, it is this grey that keeps me here. This weight. This feeling that nothing pretends to be light. It is not love in the usual sense. It is connection. A daily coexistence: me and the city, under the same grey veil, for another day.

Maybe that’s why I stay here. Not because it is easy, but because it understands me. And within all this darkness, I feel that I am exactly where I am meant to be.