The farm stands still, as if holding its breath, blocking the hot summer coming to an end, waiting to be remembered one last time. The fields are ripe with crops but tired, the barn long gone after the fire.

All the old machinery sits like forgotten bones, slowly giving in to rust. Walking through it now feels like flipping through the last pages of an old book—familiar, worn, ultimate. Rust curls over the metal; the hinges and rooftops, stitching time into every surface. There’s diamonds in all that rust.

The house feels like a time capsule from long ago. This last visit feels like walking through a memory already slipping away. You say goodbye to more than the land; to seasons, time, and the roots that started the tree that’s shaped you. This is the last stop, a farewell not just to a place but to a piece of a story, left behind in the dying light of that day.