The Fog That Remembers

Autumn in Tbilisi doesn’t begin with rain — it begins with fog. It arrives early in the morning, when the city is still asleep, and walks through the streets of Marjanishvili as if searching for someone. It glides over balconies, old shutters, cracks in the walls. In it — the whisper of time, and the damp scent from which life is born.

One day it finds a house — old, with a staircase where every step echoes softly, and windows that remember light. And it decides to stay. Because in this house, something magical is about to begin again.

They say if you walk into the fog, you can disappear for a moment — and return different. It wipes away tiredness like dust from forgotten photographs, leaving behind a quiet glow inside.

Very soon, in this house on Marjanishvili, Giraffehome will open — a place where the fog lingers a little longer. Where you can eat with your eyes and listen with your skin. Where art lives beside food, where cassettes hum softly and the air smells of old film. There will be ramen — warm and alive, like a conversation after long silence. Every spoonful will be a return to yourself, to simplicity, to breath. And freshly baked bread, rising from the fire before your eyes — a memory that warmth can be baked, if there is a soul in it.

Giraffehome — the house where fog stays, and the invisible becomes real.