I stood alone at the edge of Lake Bled, my breath visible in the frozen morning air. The world was still, wrapped in a cloak of cold and cloud, and I almost turned back. The sky was heavy, unpromising — a blanket of grey above the sleeping island.
But then, as if the sun had whispered a secret to the horizon, the clouds cracked open. A golden warmth spilled across the left side of the lake, painting the surface with honeyed light. On the right, the chill lingered — quiet, blue, and hushed — as if the night was reluctant to let go.
In that moment, the scene split in two: one half glowing with the promise of day, the other holding tight to the memory of night. And in the center, the Church on the island stood like a guardian between worlds — between warmth and cold, light and shadow, hope and solitude.
I pressed the shutter.
And what I captured wasn’t just a photograph — it was the feeling of standing between opposites, between what was and what’s to come. It was the beauty of contrast. The poetry of transition. The hush of morning... just before the world wakes up.