Skra

In the far north of Greece, near the border and surrounded by forests, lies Skra — a small, quiet village suspended in its own time. I came here regularly over five years, drawn by a waterfall hidden behind the trees. Its water is cold and green, flowing over stones that seem to breathe. Around it grows a world of moss and ferns, of insects and roots, of things that thrive where the air is damp and the light still soft.At the foot of the falls rests a stone that looks like a creature, shaped by water and erosion into something both familiar and foreign. Over the years, I found more of them: figures and faces, fossils of imagination, all part of the same slow movement that turns rock into memory.

Each morning before sunrise, I woke to the sound of wind and birds, walked through the beautiful morning landscape, and watched the mist lift from the valley. Skra has its own rhythm, one that doesn’t follow the world outside. Time stretches here — patient, circular, unconcerned. Everything remains and changes at once. What seems silent is only waiting to be heard.