The sky is clear, the sun is shining, and its warmth is comforting. I am sitting on a chair in an open space on the top floor, trying to write something meaningful—or perhaps just noting down what I am experiencing.

Crows are communicating or perhaps calling out to someone from a nearby tree. I am not sure. An engine is constantly driving the pulley of a flour mill not too far away. The sound, though initially ignored by my brain, becomes audible when I focus.

A slow and pleasant wind is touching my hand as I write this. A flock of sparrows flies by, chirping—maybe singing. In the distance, I can see a field of wheat. The seeds, sown two weeks ago, have now grown into little plants, about 2-3 inches tall, painting the field green.

My village is surrounded and covered with trees. Inside the village, there is approximately one tree for every five houses. I can also see the canal—8 meters wide and 2 meters deep—which is used for irrigation. It is currently dry. The authorities will open the dam gates when irrigation is needed, which also lowers the temperature by a few degrees. Not all fields benefit from this water due to the lack of an extensive canal network to the more remote areas.

Just now, someone announced an invitation, calling everyone to attend the funeral of a woman who passed away this morning. I will have to go...

The graveyard of my village lies on one corner of the village. Funerals here are occasions where the villagers gather to perform rituals. First, the body, covered in a shroud, is placed in front of the attendees. They stand in straight rows and pray for the deceased's forgiveness in the afterlife. Afterward, the body is carried to the grave.

The grave, usually 5-6 feet deep, is prepared with wood placed at the top, creating a small room within. Once the body is laid to rest, everyone takes turns placing soil over the grave while reciting the words of God: "From the earth We created you, and into it We will return you, and from it We will extract you another time.