I came back to London the way you revisit an old version of yourself—quietly, without explaining it to anyone, without needing a reason beyond the pull of the place. When I finally walked into St James’s Park, it was early enough that the air still felt undecided. London at that hour isn’t charming or cinematic. It’s blunt. Damp. A little grey. Honest. The kind of honesty you only get before a city starts performing for the day. That’s why I chose it. If you want something real, you go where the world hasn’t had time to fake it.

Filming alone has its own kind of vulnerability. You set up a tripod, check the frame, and just like that you blend into the background—another person trying to get through their morning. A kid tore through the path like he was late to his own life. A man stood at the lake, lost in a loop he clearly hadn’t solved. Runners passed with that quiet, disciplined determination reserved for people who expect nothing from anyone else. Nothing was staged. Nothing arranged. It was just life doing what it does when it forgets to notice you.

Walking those paths again brought things back I didn’t realize were still in me. I lived here in 2015, young and unsure, trying to mold myself into a city that barely noticed. Coming back now felt different. Cleaner. Sharper. Like the volume had been turned down and the details finally came through. London doesn’t reward effort, it rewards awareness. Miss a moment and it slips past you without apology. This time, I stayed awake.

That’s why this episode lives with the candles in the collection. They all come from the same place: real moments captured before they vanish. A feeling, a season, a quiet truth you don’t want to lose. It’s meant for people who know how to sit inside a moment, and actually let it hit them.