Some places do not forget. They hold onto the seasons that shaped them, the echoes of voices that once called them home. As I stand here, the hills seemed to be painted in front of me, painted in the shifting hues of time. Greens that have deepened with age, oranges that flicker like a memory resurfacing.

I have been here before. As a child, I walked through these northern landscapes, my small hands tracing the edges of stone walls, my footsteps light against the earth that had already carried generations of my family. I remember the scent of damp fields, the hush of the wind through valleys, the way the sky seemed endless yet familiar. Back then, I didn’t fully understand the weight of belonging, the silent thread that ties us to places even when we leave.

The land remembers, even when we are no longer here to witness it. It holds onto what was, carries it forward, and offers it back to those who return.