This summer we drifted through long days in the countryside, wrapped in the quiet wilderness. The fields kept opening before us, one after another — endless waves of wild poppies swaying in the wind, as if the land itself was breathing in red.

They pulled us in like a spell. For days we returned, unable to look away, until finally curiosity overcame us. One warm afternoon, with the hum of insects around us and the wind in our hair, we gathered a handful of poppies — gently, almost reverently — and carried them home like a secret.

There, on simple silk-cotton handkerchiefs, we began to experiment. Petals became pigment, color bloomed under our fingers, and it felt as though we were learning a language spoken only by flowers and time.