The last bit of snow on the ridge has melted, revealing the old ruts from last autumn. A full five years, and this place hasn't changed a bit. The wind takes some away, the rain washes some away, but the traces always remain. Just like with people. The more you try to erase something, the more it becomes like these imprints in the mud—dried by the sun, hardened, and all the clearer for it. Ah well. At least the silence here can't be bought.