Every time I hear Billie Holiday, something inside me stirs. I see smoky bars, clinking glasses, soft jazz swirling through the air. I never lived through those days, yet they feel like home. There’s a sadness there, sure, but also glamour, resilience, longing. Anemoia isn’t grief. It’s a gentle wish, an ache to belong to something beautiful and gone. I let the music carry me backward, just for a while.