Sand Lily of Corfu.

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 didn't resist the conditions. It simply grew—quietly, confidently, in its own way.

At that moment, I felt a strange recognition. As if this flower spoke to me without words. As if there was something deeply personal about its existence.

I thought about this image for a long time. About how one can remain tender while in a difficult space. How one can preserve the light without losing stability. How one can not struggle—and still blossom.

This encounter stayed with me. Not as a memory of Corfu, but as an inner guide.

Sometimes we don't need symbols. Sometimes a single living moment is enough for something inside to fall into place.

The sand lily didn't promise anything. It simply was. And perhaps that is precisely its rare beauty.

Sometimes such images stay with us for a long time—as a reminder that even in heat and silence, one can preserve one's light.