📖 Geschichtentext
I remember the first time I learned how to be happy with small things: a warm, oil-slicked veggie samosa bought from a cracked-cart stall, steam fogging my sunglasses on a rainy evening. It cost almost nothing, a low-cost pleasure that felt extravagant. I took it home and scribbled a postcard to my sister, terrible handwriting and all, explaining how taste can anchor moments. I paid the postage and watched the mailman fold that little rectangle into the city's slow river. This is the point: joy doesn't always need a headline. It rides in the ordinary — in a shared recipe, in bartered tomatoes, in cheap stamps that promise connection. Now, when life is loud and schedules scream, I still reach for those small rituals — boiling the pasta, picking a bright pepper from the window box, dropping a note in the mailbox. It reminds me that generosity can be low-cost, and wonder is often right under our noses.