Little things seem nothing, but they give peace, like those

Host: The morning fog lay low over the field, curling around the blades of grass like slow-moving breath. The world smelled of dew and earth, and the faint hum of crickets dissolved into the whisper of wind through the trees. In the distance, a village bell chimed softly, marking no particular hour—just the quiet persistence of time.

Jeeny walked along a narrow dirt path, her bare feet damp, her skirt brushing wildflowers on either side. Jack followed a few paces behind, hands in his pockets, the collar of his jacket turned up against the chill. They were walking not to arrive anywhere, but simply to walk—to think, to breathe, to escape the weight of the week.

The air was clean, the kind that makes thoughts seem clearer and hearts seem slower.

Jeeny: “Georges Bernanos said—‘Little things seem nothing, but they give peace, like those meadow flowers which individually seem odorless but all together