Once upon a time, I lived in a small town nestled on the seashore. Everything there seemed to coexist in perfect harmony: all of nature vibrated with peace and breathtaking beauty. The air was filled with sweet happiness — though today I can’t say how much of that joy was born within me and how much came from my surroundings. But it didn’t matter.

That place was my little paradise, and I left a piece of my heart there. And in fact, I still carry a piece of that paradise within me.

I loved walking along the shore with my faithful companion, Lucky. The beaches, radiant as the moon, were covered with white stones: large and small, round or elongated, smooth or rough, some decorated with perfect holes.

Each stone was different, unique, like a creature with its own memory. Some bore the marks of the past—imprints of plants, of ancient marine animals, of a time I don’t know but that I could almost feel under my fingertips. Looking at them was like reading a book written by the sea. They had been there for centuries, perhaps millennia, silent witnesses of all that has passed, guardians of the wisdom of time.

I couldn’t help myself: I often returned home with pockets full of stones, laden with their stories. I carefully arranged them on the shelves, small natural sculptures, elegant in their simplicity.

One day, however, something happened. I took a stone in my hands and, suddenly, I felt its living energy. A sweet, deep desire surged through me: nostalgia for the sea, for the salt on my skin, the warmth of the sun, the breeze caressing my hair. Nostalgia for moonlit nights, the song of the waves, the smile of the stars.

I truly felt—the heart of the stone.

In that moment, it became clear to me: the stones weren’t happy lying on the shelves. They missed their home. The next day, I collected them all and returned to the sea. I placed them on the shore, let the waves wash over them, and watched them shine in the sun like rediscovered jewels. My heart was full—and the stones’ seemed to be too.

Since then, I rarely take anything away from nature. Everything has its place under the sun, a place where it belongs, where it can simply be—and be happy.

We all have our place under the sun, where we can be fully ourselves, surrounded by what nourishes and loves us. Maybe, when happiness seems far away, all we need is to return to the sea: to reconnect with nature, to feel the sun on our skin, the wind in our hair, the ground beneath our feet. To let ourselves be rooted, to be reassured that all is well. To be soothed by the birdsong like a sweet lullaby.

Maybe all we need to do is enter the forest—and let the world let us know that we are loved.