Photography- Photographer Ruslan Sikunov
Some cities end abruptly
Not with a sign, but with texture—
asphalt giving way to packed dirt,
streetlights swallowed by tree canopy.
Here, the map bleeds at the edges.
GPS loses its conviction.
You follow foot-worn paths
that don’t have names,
only destinations:
the clearing where light falls differently,
the bend where the river sounds older.
This is where directions become instinct.
Where you navigate by moss on stone,
by the scent of wet soil after rain,
by the quiet agreement
that not every place needs an address
to be found.