The Tank. The SandBox Playground (Story)
<p>It was a sunny summer day. Cottonwood fluff was everywhere, adorning the air, drifting like snow. The playground featured a rocket-shaped slide, and fresh sand had just been delivered. Surrounding the area were five-story buildings made of red bricks. I resided on the 3rd floor of one of those buildings. Tall poplar (cottonwood) trees stood everywhere, interspersed between the buildings, casting shifting shadows with their leaves and branches playing on the ground.</p>
<p>As I stepped outside, the air carried the taste of cottonwood, prompting contemplation about what to do and which direction to take.</p>
<p>Usually, there are many children outside, but this time it’s Saturday, and it seems like everyone has gone to their dachas to 'work on potatoes' to spend some quality weekend time there.</p>
<p>I approach the playground, looking around. There is a six-year-old girl, about my age, sitting cross-legged in the sand at the playground. I come closer but didn’t say anything. I start playing in the sand. She was busy harvesting the sand, picking it up in her palms and releasing it between her fingers, creating a gentle cascade back onto the pile.</p>
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