BETWEEN TIME AND WOUNDS

White clouds drifted over the towering mountain peaks, reflecting streams of golden light across the sky. From that height, the landscape stretched out in breathtaking beauty. Birds rode the wind, their cheerful songs slicing through the air and wrapping everything in a peaceful calm. To the south, a winding footpath carved its way down, linking the mountains to the settlement below. Along the riverbanks, golden rice fields swayed beside lush green gardens, thriving in abundance. The mountain slopes were draped in dense clove and orange groves, a charm so vivid it made anyone want to linger. This view was more than a feast for the eyes. It was life itself for the farmers who entrusted their fate to the land. In a corner of the valley, where the air ran crisp and clean, lay a clove plantation spanning more than four hectares. It was no ordinary field; its yield was bountiful, and its name had become the subject of praise, even among those who owned not a single inch of soil. Yet beneath that beauty, something felt wrong. The wind carried more than the scent of cloves. It carried a whisper—faint, broken, and edged with sorrow. As if the valley itself was trying to speak. But no one dared to listen. Not yet.