Dagestan.

And it all started with that trip: your parents rushed from Moscow to Dagestan to visit relatives. They kept telling you, "Stop staring at your phone and hang out with the kids." Well, you did—now you're running around with that gang. There's Magomed, who always knows where the coolest view is, and Akhmed, who spins legends about every trail, and Fatima, who quietly but always says the most important things, and Muhammad, who's always like, "Let's go where no one else goes!"

They drag you to a waterfall, or to some secret observation point where the wind is so strong it almost knocks you off your feet, or to a village where grandma immediately thrusts a plate into the miracle's hands: "Eat it, daughter, with the greens, the most delicious." At first, you were a little shy—well, strangers, a different dialect, everything was unfamiliar. And then lo and behold, you're arguing with Magomed about which route is shorter, laughing at Akhmed's tales and whispering to Fatima: "Listen, it really is like a fairy tale here."

By evening, you plop down on the warm stone, watch the sun paint the cliffs gold, and think, "Wow... And these guys—it's like I've known them for ages." And you realize that Dagestan is no longer just a place in a guidebook, but a place of your own, a place you want to return to again and again.

Ahmed is tall and lean, as if he had stretched out along the mountain slopes; his skin is dark, his dark hair is cut short, and in his eyes there is a calm confidence, as if he knows everything in the world.

Magomed is slightly shorter than Akhmed, but he's always on the move: his shoulders are back, his gaze is lively, his hair is slightly tousled, as if it's just been blown by the wind; there are a couple of clay stains on his T-shirt, because he's always getting somewhere first.

Fatima is short and fragile, but her posture has that same mountain-like firmness; her long dark hair is braided, her face is calm, and her gaze is attentive, as if reading every detail around her.

Marina is vibrant, as if the sun were playing on her: her blond hair is scattered over her shoulders, freckles are on her nose, her eyes are laughing even before she opens her mouth; she always wears something colorful—a scarf, a T-shirt, a backpack—as if she paints the gray rocks with her mood.