When I first laid out a blanket by the old campfire at the dacha, I didn’t expect it to become more than just an “evening ritual.” The light wind, the crackling of the wood, and the soft light of the generation of shadows reminded me how little is needed for joy. I came there alone, but I didn’t feel lonely.

I remembered how I learned to listen: not words, but silence, not deeds, but mood. The smell of pine needles and the sweetness of a roasted apple slipped between the coals, and an unexpected closeness nested nearby… I wanted someone nearby to be silent and just look at the fire. I felt warmth inside, the kind that you want to share, but without loud words.

Suddenly I remembered how I love books that have their own soft gravity: you can dissolve in them and not be afraid of not being heard. This feeling, I think, is similar to when you are next to someone and you don’t need to talk or do anything – it’s enough to just be together.

And so I sat there, inhaling the scent of pine needles and the whisper of the wind, and a recipe came to mind – not for food, but for a feeling: take the evening, add a blanket, some firewood and a fire, call for silence with me… and let there be someone nearby whose breathing almost coincides with yours.
The most valuable thing, it seemed, was not the bright fireworks of emotions, but the measured, calm rhythm of the moment – ​​almost like a backpack filled with light warmth that goes further.

Now I have a habit: every evening, when I return along the same route, I mentally run a blanket over your shoulders. And I don’t know why, but I want to share the warmth.

Maybe a real symphony is not a loud orchestra, but music from a crackling fire, and it flows for two.