In late summer, the orchards hang heavy with fruit so dark it's almost black — sour cherries that stain fingertips and lips the color of old wine. Grandmothers pick them at dawn, when the air is still cool and the fruit hasn't yet softened in the heat. They simmer in copper pots with sugar and a whisper of almond, thickening into preserves that will sweeten winter mornings and fill pastries come autumn. The scent is tart and bright, laced with the warmth of vanilla and the faint bitterness of cherry pits cracked open to release their hidden essence. This is vişne — a taste of childhood summers, of hands sticky with syrup, of fruit that refuses to be only sweet. Sharp, honest, unforgettable.