Field Song.

It smells of dust from the road, hot sun and something familiar - something waiting at home. There is fatigue in my chest, but not the kind that breaks you, but the kind that softens you, as if every memory is a rest stop by an old stream. Where we once picked berries and believed that happiness was simply reaching the evening together.

The words here are not a confession or a request, but a quiet reminder: don't forget. Even if the road is long and only the sun warms your shoulders. Because ahead there is a light in the window, a kettle on the stove and someone's hands in which it becomes easy to breathe again.