He runs, not from something, but toward something only the soul understands — a feeling, a memory, a version of self untouched by pain. The sun bleeds into the clouds as if time itself is holding its breath. In this vast field, arms open wide, he surrenders. To the silence, to the moment, to the ache of growing up. No crowd, no noise, just the honest sound of wind and footsteps. This isn't childhood — it’s the echo of it. A visual poem where freedom doesn't need a reason.🕊️🍃
