"One last goodbye..." It's a journey to my land, to my roots, a reconnection with my origins.
I'm not talking about myself, but about Crisóstomo, who was born in 1926 in Martim, a Portuguese village in rural Minho, which, like many others, fades into murmurs, smells and fractured images that are barely distinguishable.
This is the vision of a time that seems to have frozen, that has silently witnessed the slow abandonment of things and the passing of the years. It's been almost 100 years, says my grandfather.
Crisóstomo, his eyes tired and unable to walk, makes his last journey. He walks through relics of a past in his village, revisiting people, familiar places, the hill of Airó, houses and fields and everything that was lost in his memories, and which he now remembers as glory days.
