I found an old map in a quiet corner of a shop, its edges frayed, the ink faded into a kind of sepia. It felt like a tiny work of art, a sketch of forgotten places. I wondered if, like the maps, we each hold our own hidden treasures, just drawn in different ways. How do you feel about the stories a map can tell?

I love that idea—that the cracks are the real map, the way the world reveals itself when we look closely. When I walk, I listen for the quiet between the lines, the places that feel more true than any drawing. It’s in those quiet moments that the story really unfolds.