It’s my third day in Nusa Dua, Bali. This stretch of beach feels endless and calm, like it has quietly mastered the art of stillness. The sea here doesn’t rush to meet the shore; it arrives gently, like it knows it has all the time in the world. The benches, placed in a perfect line just beyond the sand, are simple and clean. There’s something about the symmetry of it all that strikes me. It feels like someone thought carefully about rest here, how and where it should happen. A small but meaningful thing.I’ve never seen beaches like this before. Not just for their beauty, many places in India have beautiful coasts, but for how well they are cared for. No plastic bottles half-buried in the sand, no broken glass or stray slippers, no leftover picnic trails. The beach feels respected, by both nature and people. It makes me pause. I can’t remember the last time I walked barefoot without constantly looking down to dodge litter. Here, I walk freely, distracted only by the sound of the waves and the feel of soft sand underfoot.I’m here with Amma and Appa. It’s their first time outside India. Even as I write that, it feels a little surreal. Growing up, international trips were not something we ever really spoke about, not because we didn’t want to travel, but because it just didn’t seem possible. There was always something more urgent, more practical, more immediate. So to be here, the three of us, in this quiet corner of Bali, it feels big, even though we’re not doing anything particularly grand.Most days, we sit on the benches or stroll slowly by the water. We point things out to each other; a seashell, a crab scuttling back into its hole, a coconut rolling from nowhere. We eat together, take naps, walk again. We haven’t been talking much, but our silences don’t feel heavy or awkward. They feel soft. Like a kind of truce. We’ve carried years of unsaid things between us, misunderstandings, expectations, old wounds that never got enough air. But somehow, here, those things don’t press quite so hard. Maybe it’s the distance from home. Or maybe it’s just the sea, quietly doing what it does best.This morning, I watched a group of children run across the beach with kites, bright flashes of red, blue, yellow slicing through the sky. They must have come from different countries, some speaking Indonesian, others English, maybe a bit of French or Korean, but that didn’t seem to matter. They shouted, laughed, chased after each other’s kites like they’d always known each other. There’s something beautiful about watching kids at play. The way they throw themselves into it with complete faith. The way they make friendships without asking names. They haven’t learned yet to carry hesitation.Watching them stirred something in me. I remembered The Kite Runner, that image of a boy running after a kite like he was chasing hope. I turned to Appa and said, “Let’s get one.” He smiled, almost sheepishly, and nodded. Soon, we had three, one for each of us. I thought maybe we’d just hold them for a few photos, but Appa surprised us. He took his kite, held it up, and ran like a boy, laughing. He told us stories I’d heard before, of making kites out of newspaper and sticks in Perumbavoor, battling the wind with friends he hasn’t seen in years. But this time, they didn’t feel like stories. They felt like the present.Amma laughed out loud. Really laughed. Not the polite kind, but a full-bellied laugh that made her eyes squint and her shoulders shake. I can’t remember the last time I saw that. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention before. Maybe life was moving too fast.We flew the kites. They dipped and danced and tangled and flew again. And for those few minutes, there was nothing else. No work emails, no news from home, no worries about the future. Just wind and sky and the three of us in it. That kind of joy is rare when you grow up. You don’t even realise how much you miss it.Later, we sat again, feet caked with sand, faces warm from the sun, and hearts lighter. It struck me how little space we make in our lives for moments like this. We fill our days with tasks, appointments, goals. But no one teaches us how to sit still with the people we love and talk about nothing. To let the day pass without trying to catch it. To be, without doing.This trip wasn’t something we meticulously planned. Honestly, I didn’t think it would happen. But now that we’re here, I can’t imagine it not happening. These days will stay with me, not because we ticked off tourist spots or did anything spectacular, but because we were simply present. Together.Just a clean beach. Three kites. My parents. And a kind of peace that I didn’t know I was looking for.Rekha S. is a researcher working at the Indian Institute of Science, Bengaluru.We’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.Read the series here.