Francis Gri composes like a dreamer who has never quite returned from sleep. His music lingers between wakefulness and slumber, unfolding like mist over frozen landscapes - each note a slow breath of condensation on a windowpane, each silence a space where memory curls in on itself.

With "Bruma", Gri continues his exploration of delicate melodic textures and abstract soundscapes, weaving a sound world that is as fragile as it is immersive. This time, however, music alone does not tell the story. Included with the release is a short tale - one that gives "Bruma" an added weight, an aching, whispered narrative that mirrors the album’s slow, drifting movements.

The story follows Bruma, a woman born without legs, who finds escape in dreamlike journeys to ethereal dimensions. But over time, the fire of imagination dims, and she becomes trapped in the barren world of reality - until, in her final days, she rediscovers a way back, dissolving into nature itself. Gri’s music is the soundtrack to this transformation, the passage from fleeting youth to disillusionment and, finally, to an acceptance that transcends both.

Musically, "Bruma" exists in a state of gentle suspension. Tracks like "Bruma I" and "Bruma III" stretch into vast, reverb-drenched spaces, where synth washes and distant echoes move like shifting fog. The album's pacing is unhurried, inviting the listener to drift with it rather than chase after structure. "Bruma IV" carries a sense of weightlessness, while "Bruma VII" (the second one - because time is circular here) feels like the slow unraveling of a final thread, a long exhale into silence.

By choosing to work entirely with synthetic sounds rather than his usual field recordings, Gri crafts a world that feels detached from the physical, a realm of mirages and reverberations. The absence of found sound only heightens the sense of distance - this isn’t music tied to any one place, but rather to the shifting, unstable landscapes of memory.

At its core, "Bruma" is a meditation on impermanence. It is the moment before snow melts, the hush of a room before someone speaks, the space between reality and a dream. And when it ends, it leaves you not with closure, but with the feeling of having briefly touched something just beyond reach - before it slipped, softly, into the mist.