When I grew up, I walked through a place I had never been before, yet strangely, I knew the way. No one was there, but I felt something waiting for me. Not in a hurry, not as a threat… just patiently. The air smelled like memories, the kind you don’t know who they belong to. As I walked, I felt each step leaving a part of me behind while quietly picking up another. As if I was being rebuilt there, slowly and silently. There was no destination, and for the first time, that didn’t scare me. I realized some journeys are not meant for arriving. They are meant for remembering.