I wake up to the sound of roosters crowing, not the buzz of alarms. The morning sun spills gently over the hills, painting golden patterns across our thatched roof. This is my home — a remote village tucked away from the chaos of cities, where time moves slower and the sky always feels a little closer.

Life here is simple, yet rich in its own way. We draw water from the well, cook over wood fires, and grow much of what we eat. The fields are our lifeline — green with rice in the rainy season, golden with wheat come harvest. Everyone knows everyone, and greetings are never rushed.

Children run barefoot across dusty paths, their laughter echoing through the air. The village elders gather beneath the banyan tree, sharing stories older than the road that leads here. We don’t have cinemas or shopping malls, but we have the stars — brighter and more alive than anywhere else I’ve seen.

There’s hardship, yes. Power cuts are common, and reaching the nearest hospital takes hours. But there’s also resilience — the kind that’s woven into our daily routines, into the weathered hands of the women who wake before dawn, into the quiet strength of the men returning from the fields.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to live in a city, where lights never go out and dreams are bigger. But then I look around — at the trees swaying in the breeze, the smoke curling from chimney tops, the peace that lives in this land — and I know I’m part of something pure.

This village may be far from the world’s noise, but it is close to the heart. And here, in its stillness, I’ve found life’s true rhythm.

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