Here, autumn is not merely a season, but an old song whispered by the trees along the boulevard.
The curls of the leaves — golden, rusty, copper — fall softly, as if the city were laying a cover over its youth,
to keep it safe.
Sofia University stands before us like an old sage — dignified, bright, built from time and memory.
Its façade is like an open letter, written in those grand letters of history that no one forgets.
The windows breathe blue, as if guarding within them the youth of generations.
And on the steps and paths before it — life. People walk, scatter, meet, carrying early dreams in their stride.
I see small gestures, slowed steps, conversations perhaps forgotten by everyone except
the very stone beneath them.
And then — the bus.
That red one, 280.
An old city legend on wheels.
In this painting it is not merely transport — it is an omen. Its doors have opened destinies, carried laughter,
cold, exhaustion, trembling before exams, first loves, first disappointments.
Here it stands as a living memory, softened by time, yet never forgotten.
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Here, autumn is not merely a season, but an old song whispered by the trees along the boulevard. The curls of the leaves — golden, rusty, copper — fall softly, as if the city were laying a cover over its youth, to keep it safe.
Sofia University stands before us like an old sage — dignified, bright, built from time and memory. Its façade is like an open letter, written in those grand letters of history that no one forgets. The windows breathe blue, as if guarding within them the youth of generations.
And on the steps and paths before it — life. People walk, scatter, meet, carrying early dreams in their stride. I see small gestures, slowed steps, conversations perhaps forgotten by everyone except the very stone beneath them.
And then — the bus.
That red one, 280.
An old city legend on wheels.
In this painting it is not merely transport — it is an omen. Its doors have opened destinies, carried laughter, cold, exhaustion, trembling before exams, first loves, first disappointments. Here it stands as a living memory, softened by time, yet never forgotten.
Lia