She prefers the river because it is untamed. The fresh water flows without asking permission, changes moods, rises, falls, drags. It is there that she recognizes herself. Not in the beautiful landscape, but in the raw force that tries not to please anyone. She enters the water as if returning to an ancient place in her body. The river touches her skin and awakens something that needs no name. It is not calm. It is silent excitement. It is the physical pleasure of feeling the current pressing against her thighs, her belly, her lower back. The fresh water does not seduce, it envelops, weighs, insists. She drinks from the river with her mouth, without ceremony. She likes the earthy, living, imperfect taste. She doesn't want filters. Her body responds to this contact like an animal that knows where to quench its thirst. There is an instinctive trust there, an intimacy that cannot be explained. The river does not observe her. It does not judge her. It does not interpret her. That is why she lets go. Her muscles relax and at the same time remain alert. She moves firmly, letting the water set the rhythm. There is no rehearsed delicacy. There is mastery over one's own weight, one's own presence. She stays in the river until her body is exhausted. Until her skin wrinkles, until the cold becomes a part of her. When she leaves, she takes no memory with her, only scent, texture, strength clinging to her flesh. The river doesn't transform her. It merely activates what was already there: a woman who loves nature not as a refuge, but as a confrontation.