Mihai Ciobanu - Copilarie,parca-ai Fost Mai Ieri ⏰

A bird took flight from a nearby branch, its wings snapping against the quiet air. Mihai smiled, a bittersweet ache tightening in his chest. The years had stolen the boy, but they couldn't touch the memory. He realized then that childhood isn't a place you leave behind; it’s a song you carry in your pocket, ready to be hummed whenever the world grows too loud.

Mihai stood at the edge of the old orchard, the scent of crushed mint and sun-warmed dust filling his lungs. If he closed his eyes, he wasn't a man with graying temples; he was a barefoot boy running toward the sound of a distant flute. Mihai Ciobanu - Copilarie,parca-ai fost mai ieri

He walked further into the tall grass, feeling the scratch of summer on his skin. He could almost hear the echo of his own laughter ringing out from the old barn, joined by the voices of friends long gone to the city or the soil. They had been rich with nothing but wooden hoops and imagination. A bird took flight from a nearby branch,

The village of his youth felt like a dream held together by the embroidery on his mother’s sleeves. He remembered the heavy weight of the wooden bucket at the well and the way the water tasted of cold stones and stars. There was a specific magic in those long afternoons—the kind where time didn't move in hours, but in the ripening of cherries and the lengthening of shadows across the hills. He realized then that childhood isn't a place