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"There is no way I return to the city now… You need some milk – you have to queue all day. Can't even get a piece of bread easily. Crazy people… How do you cope with living in such a life, dear?" "Nobody is queuing for anything now. We have supermarkets – you go and pick whatever you want, and you buy it! Old times are gone! You should come and see!" "No, dear. I am afraid of the things I am going to see. When I first saw this tiny little village with its mysterious fields, clinging into the strong grasp of the surrounding dense forests - I knew it! My eyes will always rove the crests of the gorgeous Rila Mountain in the far distance – how I can go and look for another truth than the one laying just before my eyes. You, young people, always in the search for something, but you never look close to your hearts…". "But don't you get cold, it’s winter now and you don't even have heating here?!" "What is cold? I have work to do – the animals won't ask me if it's cold or hot today…You obviously have plenty of free time to think about such peculiarities of the mundane life, dear." Her words echoed in my mind with such power that I couldn't think about anything else. As an avid world traveller, every meeting with locals has taught me something. But she was right - I have never looked close to my heart… The sun was slowly breaking through the frozen coat of the earth. It was this time of the year when the calm farewell of the winter catches a last glimpse at the amain set in of the spring – thawing ice, singing birds, roaring wildlife. The tracks in the snow reminded of a busy Honk Kong highway – two foxes, a couple of rabbits, a family of wild boars, wolfs, a deer- everything was coming back to life. We were slowly advancing through the snowdrifts with our 4X4 pick-up. Twelve kilometres of a deserted off-road trail was separating the place we were heading to from the rest of civilization. My heart was trembling – I was about to meet the last two surviving dwellers of a forgotten village. And I wasn't on my usual trip around the world, searching for local stories, riding with the Mongolian nomads or immersing into the traditional life of the Bedouins. No. This time I was in my own country, just 40 min away from my hometown. I was in the most 'developed' part of Bulgaria. Yet, without realizing, I was about to trespass the limits of time, clashing with a past consigned to everlasting oblivion and negligence. Old brick houses, an abandoned school, the remains of a church – all enveloped by the thick veil of silence. Only the crackle of my steps and the frequency of my own breathing were mischievously lifting this veil from time to time. Finally, at the end of what was once a narrow street, here they are – a mother and a son, standing next to each other, pillars of traditions and lost culture, welcoming us with their warm faces and rough hands. It was the first time in months they see other people. Only the hunters in the region stop by their village to bring some bread, oil and spices. Farming is the only survival kit they have available. No water, no electricity, no vehicles. I was listening to the vivid story of their life with great interest. What fascinated me was their gestures, the greyish covering of their blue eyes hinting at their advanced age, the dirty clothes, the few black teeth darkening their glowing smiles– these were the real repositories of history. It was freezingly cold in the small house, but otherwise, I wouldn't remember the feeling of warmth on my hands as the old woman spilt some fresh milk by accident. It was difficult to sit on a hard stone for hours, but how could you appreciate the softness of the homemade cheese in any other way? In scarcity, you find abundance. In this abundance, you find that which is close to your heart.