The sun silvered the prickly pears. The road was barely visible; a blanket of brambles and thickets had almost completely erased it. He remained intuiting it a moment, while he passed the palm of his hand among some thyme flowers; merging that reality with memory and memory. Everything remained the same in the scorching sun; the incessant singing of cicadas over that silence so pure and natural. For a moment, she thought how much she missed him. He continued up the winding path, pushing his way through the bushes until, panting, he finally reached the age. Smiling, he saw how it was still paved, with that slate that, at sunset, shone in silver scales. The haystack walls still held out, only a few timbers on the roof had yielded to the relentless passage of time. He followed a few steps until he saw the dusty sidewalk of the river disappear beyond the malls. He looked up and looked at the adjoining fields; brown traces of earth where peasants, with the blow of a hoe, carved out their lives. It was right from there, at the edge of the era, where at sunset he sat while the light, sifted by the castle tower, painted the cliff of the Virgin in pinkish tones. He felt the air fill his chest. For a moment he wanted to scream; he had the desire to hear again the echo of that boy who scared the pigeons.