I came out here to be alone—no WiFi, no neighbors, just wind, dust, and the Mediterranean like a hidden secret. That was the plan: off-grid, off-radar, off-everything.
Then they showed up.
First, the donkey—scruffy and stubborn—wandered in like he owned the place. I gave him water. He stayed.
Then the dog—happy, loyal, followed the donkey and slept at my door. I ignored him. It didn’t work.
Then the cat—tiny, half-feral, threw herself at me like she’d been watching and waiting.
I named them: Minx (the cat), Zito (the dog), Tiberius (the donkey). I didn’t choose them. They chose me.
One day, hiking with all three, I found a hidden marker in the rocks—with initials I hadn’t thought about in years—and an envelope. It was from my grandmother, who had passed five years earlier.
She wrote:
“If you’re reading this, the animals have chosen you. Trust them—they’ll guide you.”
I followed their lead to a clearing with an ancient olive tree and a second marker. Beneath it, Minx found a key.
Back home, the key unlocked an old chest in the attic. Inside: my grandmother’s journal, a photo of her by the same tree, and a vial of golden liquid—called Lumina. She wrote that it offered clarity, but only if intentions were pure.
I didn’t drink it right away. I waited, reflected. Slowly, I felt connected—to the land, to her, to everything.
When I finally drank it, I felt peace and memories—not just mine, but of those who had come before. I understood: this place wasn’t for escape. It was for connection.
Eventually, others came—seeking something they couldn’t name. And I welcomed them, guided by the lessons I’d inherited.
The animals stayed with me, constant reminders that sometimes the things we try to avoid are what we need most.
In the end, I learned: solitude isn’t about shutting the world out—it’s about being open enough to let the right parts in.