I didn't see it right away. It wasn't conspicuous and didn't try to be noticed. White, almost transparent, it grew right in the scorching sand—where, it seemed, nothing should grow. The sun was high. The sand was hot, almost scorching. And right there, at the very edge of the shore, the lily bloomed. It seemed fragile. But the longer I looked at it, the clearer it became: its strength wasn't in its defense, but in its ability to exist. It didn't hide. It didn't seek shade. It

This is Corfu. View of the old fortress. For a long time, I couldn't pinpoint the moment when Greece became more than a country. It didn't happen right away. Not on my first visit, and not on the most beautiful day. At first, it was a backdrop—the light, the sea, the lines of the houses. Then, it became a habit. And then, it became a state that doesn't end when you leave. In Greece, everything happens more slowly, but not lazily. Time doesn't drag here—it simply takes its tim

I don't remember addresses. I remember light. Every house we lived in remained not just walls, but a feeling—the morning air, the sound of footsteps on the floor, the view from the window that eventually became familiar. Some houses were temporary, but they felt more secure than permanent ones. It was easy to breathe in them. Easy to be silent. Easy to be yourself—without the role of a guest. We arrived briefly, and when we left, it was as if we had to leave something behind.

There are roads you don't take to get to a destination. You don't look at your watch or check your route. They exist not to get you somewhere, but to keep you moving. I didn't fall in love with these roads right away. Before, I always needed to know where I was going and why. Now, all I have to do is leave the house and let the day unfold. This is especially noticeable on the islands. The road can end abruptly—at the sea, at a village, at a turn where there's nothing left. An