I wander through the Lautaret garden, half-looking for inspiration, half-lost in the blooms all around. Yellow, purple, wild splashes of color dance in the sun, each one calling out in its own quiet way. I stop to listen. Somewhere in the distance, the sharp whistle of a marmot echoes off the mountains. The peaks rise around me, towering, eternal. It’s mid-August in France, and everything feels alive, from the wildflowers to the stones beneath my feet. For now, I just stand there, breathing it all in, and the mountains watch in silence.