Out past the city’s last breath, where the sky sinks heavy into open fields, there is a place where time moves like a slow-drawn inhale. The roads don’t rush—they wind, bending around stories older than the ones who tell them. Here, the roots run deep, gnarled and tangled beneath homes that have stood through more than one lifetime.
The people know each other’s names without asking. They know what the rain smells like before it comes and which way the wind will carry the voices of those who’ve gone. Some never leave, some always meant to, and some—well, some find their way back, drawn by something unspoken.
This is where it begins, not with a destination, but with the ones who were here before. With the weight of their hands on the earth, with the echo of their laughter in the quiet. This is the seed.
