All our lives, we believe we are searching for the future; unaware that every step is a silent attempt to return. A return to the place where, for the first time, they called out the name of “us.” Perhaps every journey, before reaching an external destination, is a journey back to the very beginning; to the alleyways where the scent of rain still lingers in memory, to the windows through which the morning light once passed, to the voices that time could never silence. The farther a person travels, the closer they sometimes come to their roots. Amid unfamiliar cities, foreign languages, and streets that hold no trace of the past, it only takes something small; an old melody, the scent of fresh bread, a familiar word from one’s mother tongue; for all distances to collapse, and for the heart to remember the way home. Homeland is not merely a piece of land; it is a memory that can never be exiled from the human heart.