Member-only story
I Call the Mountains Home, Where My Childhood Lives On
Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.
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The mountains have always been the first home of my happy soul —a safe space where I can take off every mask and simply be my true self. It’s where my inner child feels joyful and carefree.
It is here, in these hills, that my childhood took root, where the essence of who I am still echoes in every breeze, every rock.
My maternal grandparents’ house is nestled in the mountains, where I spent the golden days of my childhood. Those early years, filled with endless echoes of laughter and adventures in the forest, carved a deep and lasting bond between me and the mountains.
Whenever someone recalls a joyful childhood, a part of me drifts away, pulled back into the soft, aching glow of the place I used to call home.
Their house is in a village. This village, high up in the hills, feels untouched by the rest of the world — no signs, no roads, just a narrow trail that disappears into the forest. But if you follow it long enough, with unhurried steps, and a bit of hope, you’ll get there. And when you do, it’ll feel like you’ve stumbled into a whole…
