I thought I knew this park. I thought it was just a green spot on the map between my house and the subway. Until one day I stayed there until dark.

It all started with a tree. Or rather, with its shadow. I sat down on the grass to answer a message, and suddenly noticed how the wind was stirring the leaves, and the shadow on the ground was getting thicker and lighter. Like a living watercolor. Then I saw that there were dozens of such “paintings” around.

Since then, the park has changed. I started coming here not to “take a walk,” but to look. I noticed that the ducks in the pond always sleep standing on one leg. That an old man in a cap feeds pigeons every day at 4 o’clock, and a girl in a pink jacket draws the same house on the asphalt with chalk.

I also discovered "my" places. A bench under a linden tree, where no one sits, because it is slightly off the path. A clearing, where the grass smells especially strong after the rain. A corner by the stream, where you can hide from everyone and listen to the water flowing.

This park taught me attentiveness. Now I know: beauty is not in distant lands, but in the ability to see the pattern on the wing of a butterfly that has landed on your bag.