The sun had barely set above the hilltops when there was already movement in Atenor. Not the hurried movement of cities—but the movement of long ears perking up, curious, when someone approaches the fence. Miranda's donkeys wake up slowly, like almost everything else on the plateau.

You close your eyes. Your cell phone has been in your pocket, silent for twenty minutes. You hear water—a stream you can't see, but you know it's there, somewhere among the ash trees. The earthen and shale ground creaks beneath your feet.

Imagine waking up on a farm in Trás-os-Montes without an alarm clock. The light streams in through the soft, golden stone window. Outside, the silence is so complete you can hear the wind rustling through the olive trees.