The Baltic Sea in October is a moody beast. The wind whips my hair into a frenzy, and the grey waves crash onto the shore with a sound like a sigh. I pull my woolen scarf tighter, the one my grandmother knitted for me, and shove my freezing hands into the pockets of my coat. Everyone else in Jurmala has retreated to the warmth of their homes, leaving the vast, empty beach to me and the screeching gulls.I come here when the city of Riga feels too loud, when the pressure of choosing a university, a career, a life, becomes too much. Here, the only decision is which path to walk along the water’s edge.My boot kicks at a piece of seaweed, and something glints beneath it–a small, honey-coloured piece of amber, worn smooth by the sea. It’s no bigger than my thumbnail, but it’s warm to the touch, a tiny sun in stone. I hold it in my palm, wondering about its story. A thousand years ago, this was sap, clinging to a pine tree in a forest that no longer exists. It witnessed Vikings, Teutonic knights, empires rising and falling, all while it tumbled in the dark, cold deep, waiting for this exact moment to wash up at my feet.It’s silly, but it makes me feel better. My worries about exams and the future seem so small against its timeline. I am just a moment, a girl on a beach, with a piece of ancient weather in her hand. Maybe I don’t need to have everything figured out by next spring. Maybe it’s enough to just be here, now, feeling the cold wind on my cheeks and the weight of history in my pocket. I put the amber fragment away and turn back towards the lights of the town, feeling strangely, quietly, brave.