In the heart of central Greece, my mother’s village—a quiet, timeless place tucked among the mountains—became the key to unlocking a deeper connection with my roots. There were no tourist attractions, just winding stone paths, the scent of pine, and the echoes of generations past. As I retraced my family’s history, I found not just a place, but a sense of belonging that transcended distance. In this land, where memories are woven into every stone and fig tree, I came to understand that immigration doesn’t sever ties—it stretches them. Returning wasn’t just a journey to the past; it was a journey to myself.