There are wounds that never truly heal. They settle into the soil, cling to the walls of ruins, and live on in the memories of those who remain. Blood is loss—the ones who are gone, whose names may no longer be heard, but whose stories must never be forgotten. Soil is home—the ground beneath our feet, the place where families grow, where memories are born. A land that, to some, may be nothing more than a point on a map, but to those who belong to it, it is a part of their life and identity. Memory is resistance against forgetting. Because as long as a name is spoken, a home is remembered, and a story continues to be told, those who have been lost are never truly gone.