I stood among the cherries and ate straight from the tree. The sun touched my shoulders, and the juice ran down my fingers. It was sudden and absolutely magical.

I came to the dacha just to remove weeds, but something stopped me. Maybe the smell. Maybe a light wind. I suddenly remembered myself as a child, barefoot, in a dusty dress, stealthily pulling cherries from my grandmother's tree.

It's funny how memories live with us. They don't age. They hide in the details - in the smell of bark, in the sound of rustling grass. And here I am - alive, warm, real. And in every berry - a song.