Beyond the grandness of Paris's museums & cathedrals lie the quiet romanticism of her trees & waters, fountains gone quiet for the season in their stone baths. They create an extra shimmer of texture under the grey sky, a ripple of silver against the lingering burnt autumn leaves. 
It is not so much about bright sights now as it is the feeling of heavy silks and velvet, the warmth of an alpaca sweater when temperatures start to dip. It is a time for daily routines that feel intuitively right.
A warm cup in hand, an espresso or tea for a long morning walk along the river. Perhaps a thin layer of mist still hovers over the water, waiting for the cyclists' return to work. Like a film still, the buildings pass by in shades of bleached white and grey. We follow her like a shadow in colors of bone and charcoal, driftwood and rain, mirroring her spirit. It is as if the city had tucked her arms around us.