I arrived in Sintra before dawn, three mornings in a row, chasing a fog that only showed up on the last one.
The light there does not arrive so much as seep in — through pine, through stone, through the low cloud that sits on the hills until almost ten. Waiting became the actual work.
What I came back with is not the dramatic shot I had pictured, but something quieter: a coastline that looks like it is still deciding whether to exist.