We left at dawn.

We carried everything we could: useful stones, dried fruit, seeds, cloth, bowls. Small things. But ours.

It had taken me two days to find the place. With the children… it took four.

Four days of slow steps, long pauses, and watchful nights.

Each time the sun fell, we searched for wide-branch trees or root hollows to shelter. Goom made small camps. Soft fire. Deep silence.

Each carried a makeshift bag, made with torn cloth and bark. We gathered fruit, leaves, roots. Goom taught them what to take. What to avoid.

And so, step by step, we moved forward.

When we finally reached the entrance to the new place, the children stared without understanding.

“Here…?”

I nodded.

A crack in the stone, barely visible among moss and branches. Narrow. Dark.

“We have to go in,” I said. “Inside. Everything is ahead.”

The children crawled in. One after the other. The sound of their hands and knees on the stone was like a damp whisper.

I… didn’t fit so easily. I had to crawl, chest to the ground, rocks scraping my arms.

We kept going for hours.

The tunnel was long. But little by little… it opened.

The air changed. It felt fresher. More alive.

And then…

The climb began.

A gentle slope at first. Then steeper.

The children used their hands. I pushed them from time to time. We were all sweating. But no one complained.

And then…

The light.

A crack above. Where sunlight came through.

The ceiling opened like a stone eye. And just below…

A stream.

Clear water. Sweet.

The mountaintop… from within.

A hidden place. Protected. Alive.

The children fell silent. Their eyes wide as moons.

The oldest stepped to the water and laughed. The others followed.

I… just watched. And took a deep breath.

“Here we’ll live,” I said at last.

It wasn’t big. But it was enough.

It had water. It had light.

And soon… it would have green.

Because we would plant. We would grow.

I would teach them.

Seeds, roots, patience.

We would do what we knew best.

We would grow again.

Our new life… began here.