Mihai Ciobanu - Copilarie,parca-ai Fost Mai Ieri Direct

He walked further into the tall grass, feeling the scratch of summer on his skin. He could almost hear the echo of his own laughter ringing out from the old barn, joined by the voices of friends long gone to the city or the soil. They had been rich with nothing but wooden hoops and imagination.

The village of his youth felt like a dream held together by the embroidery on his mother’s sleeves. He remembered the heavy weight of the wooden bucket at the well and the way the water tasted of cold stones and stars. There was a specific magic in those long afternoons—the kind where time didn't move in hours, but in the ripening of cherries and the lengthening of shadows across the hills. Mihai Ciobanu - Copilarie,parca-ai fost mai ieri

As the sun began to dip behind the mountains, painting the sky in strokes of violet and gold, Mihai turned back toward the house. He walked with a lighter step, knowing that as long as he could still smell that mint and hear that phantom flute, the boy he used to be was never truly far away. He walked further into the tall grass, feeling

It truly felt like only yesterday that he sat at his grandfather’s feet, watching the old man’s calloused hands carve stories into wood. He remembered the kitchen filled with the scent of fresh bread and the hearth fire that promised safety against the winter howling outside. Back then, the world ended at the crest of the next hill, and that was enough. The village of his youth felt like a