On the highlands, life moves in gentle repetition, seasons passing, marked by a single starfruit tree.
Simple rituals shape the days: water from the stream, fruit gathered from the ground,
sunlight turning it quietly gold.
They keep the fruit not for its worth,
but for the memory it holds.
Over time, the cloth bag carrying these small keepsakes wears thin.
A new leather one replaces it, crafted, steady, made to endure,
yet it holds the same quiet things.
It’s never about what we carry
but about how we choose to hold what truly matters.
