The gaze lingers on the long, distinct line that cleanly divides two shades of blue. Above it, the clear blue sky, scattered with drifting patches of clouds, and the bright, blinding sun. Below, the sea stretches in waves toward the sand, swallowing it in uneven lines, only to spit it back out a moment later. At such moments, it's a quiet joy to feel the water gently brushing against the tips of your fingers with its warm touch. This small, pleasant detail is usually noticed only by someone who rarely visits the sea. Those lucky enough to come here often most likely stop paying attention to it, and over time, these sensations are carried away by the current into the dusty corners of memory, turning into mere routine. Shifting your gaze away from this scene, your eyes catch on small, rough footprints trailing along the shore. Following them, you come upon the tiny figure of a girl digging in the sand. Grains slip through her tiny fingers, and one must admire the persistence with which she scoops it up again and again, trying to shape a castle. All of it just so she can joyfully flop onto it or stomp the fragile creation with a half-mad grin and a burst of ringing laughter. Children have their own peculiarities. Building sandcastles only to tear them down later — but it's crucial that it's done by their own hands. If anyone else dares to step on the castle with their foot, it inevitably leads to shouting, tears, hurt feelings, and sometimes even fights. Though one might wonder what difference it makes who does it, since the castle will just crumble into a shapeless mass again. But for a child, it matters deeply; not only do they believe they alone have the right to do it, but they also feel that the castle wants them to be the one to do it. As we grow older, these peculiarities don't disappear. A painted picture, a written story, a song — they seem like living parts of ourselves that we want, if not to pass on, then at least to reveal to others. Yet canvas, letters, and sounds — no matter how much life we breathe into them — remain indifferent to everything. Just like a letter is indifferent to whether it is read or thrown away, or a stone to whether it is walked around or stumbled upon. In childhood, I was told that we don't simply walk along the road of life choosing a direction — we build that road ourselves. And we should thank the sun for rising and lighting our way. But for a long time now, this path has appeared to me differently. The sun does not strive to illuminate our path, the rain does not squeeze drops out of pity during a drought, the river does not flow to quench thirst, and sunsets don't try to evoke feelings of beauty within us. I would be deeply surprised if they even knew of our existence — and whether the word “know” even applies to natural phenomena at all. And the road itself isn't really a road, it's more like a winding trail through a dense thicket. We do not walk this trail. We are the flowers on its edge, growing toward the light that is indifferent to us. Indifferent observers, longing to step onto the path but only able to try to glimpse anything at all along it. And often, looking at my daughter, thoughts slip by that she too will become an observer. The only thing one can count on is that sometimes gusts of wind carry parts of us further along the edge of this trail. And perhaps my daughter will see what lies beyond the indifferent thicket, while I am left only to watch her and trace my thoughts in the sand.