The first cold morning smells crisp, like shirts just taken off the ironing board. Pavements look neater, colours stand out, and your breath skims the air. Somewhere between the folds of autumn, a tiny nod from the world brushes against you, much like the pressed-linen air—soft and familiar. A bus driver’s nod, a dachshund’s gentle trot in a cosy jumper, these little moments remind you that you’re part of a quiet, shared rhythm. As you zip your jacket, that sense of pressed-linen air returns, making you feel quietly reset as your hands remind you that you never find gloves until November.