It was the kind of afternoon that stretches slowly, golden and quiet, the air warm but touched by a gentle breeze. I was lying in a field on the edge of a country road, where the tall grasses swayed like they were breathing. The scent of the earth was dry and comforting—sunbaked hay, distant lavender, the faint sweetness of something wild blooming nearby. I had nowhere to be, no reason to rush, and for the first time in a while, I felt still. The cicadas hummed like a steady heartbeat, and every now and then, a bird passed overhead, casting a fleeting shadow over my closed eyes.

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I remember picking a blade of grass and running it between my fingers, the oils warm and green. There was dust in the air, and pollen, and the soft rustle of the wind moving through everything like a whisper. It smelled of sun and time—of long summers and simple moments that somehow stay with you. I didn’t know then that I would carry that scent in memory, that it would return in quiet moments years later. But it does. Every time I smell it, I am there again: calm, grounded, and completely at peace.