Do you remember the way the wooden gate groaned on its rusting hinges, how the scent of sun-warmed hay and tilled earth clung to the air like an old hymn? The village was more than a place—it was a pulse, a breath, a slow-moving dream stitched together by the hands of those who loved you before you even understood what love was. You ran through the dust, skin kissed by the sun, laughter swallowed by the vastness of open fields. In the kitchen, your grandmother moved like a quiet deity, shaping d

I make a beautiful wooden hinge