In the winter of 1997, at the beginning of October, I traveled with my small family to a remote village where my aunt lived. The village, now almost lost to time, still carried the charm of old traditions. By nightfall, we arrived, and my aunt greeted us with her ever-watchful dog barking incessantly
We gathered around a tray of tea, speaking of family—who had lived, who had passed, who had married, and who had fallen ill. Then the conversation turned to tragedy: the recent death of a young woman in the village, her loss casting a shadow over everyone. My aunt's neighbor explained how the girl, once full of promise, had suffered silently, trapped by obligations she could not escape. The room fell silent. The warmth of tea and conversation did little to ease the heaviness in the air.
Later, as the night deepened, I was escorted to a small, humble house at the edge of the village. My companion, my aunt's daughter, was careful and attentive. The night was cold, and the stars above shone like distant witnesses. We prepared a shared bed to stay warm, the atmosphere quiet, intimate—but entirely innocent.
Conversations drifted into dreams and reflections. I learned more about life in the village, the hardships of those who lived there, and the small joys they cherished. Despite the cold and isolation, there was a strange comfort in being close to someone who cared for you.
By the morning, the first light of dawn spilled through the cracked windows. The night had passed, leaving behind not shame or fear, but a sense of connection, shared humanity, and an understanding of the fragility of life.