Chapter 4: The Mountains Remember

Mars is quiet.

Its deserts stretch beyond the horizon in every direction, red and endless beneath a sky that never quite feels alive.

But whenever I close my eyes, I do not see Mars.

I see green.

I see the mountains.

I see Seli, Vermion.

And beyond it, the road that climbs toward Avdella, where the Pindus Mountains rise like ancient guardians above the forests.

The scientists on Mars speak often about survival.

Water.

Energy.

Shelter.

Food.

As if civilization is built from equations alone.

Yet the older I become, the more I believe that civilization begins somewhere much simpler.

In soil.

In bread.

In memory.

In the smell of wood smoke rising from a mountain village at dusk.

When I was a child, the world felt impossibly large.

The mountains of northern Greece seemed taller than any frontier humanity would ever cross.

Their peaks carried snow long after spring arrived.

Clouds drifted through the valleys like wandering spirits.

The forests stretched endlessly over the slopes, green upon green upon green.

Back then, I never imagined I would one day stand on another planet.

I was too busy running.

Running through fields.

Running beside streams.

Running with cousins and friends until the evening shadows reached across the hills and called us home.

The old stone house stood above the village.

It had survived winters, storms, wars, and generations.

The walls were thick.

The roof smelled of rain.

The wooden floors sang softly beneath every step.

To me, it felt eternal.

My grandmother would already be outside when we arrived.

Preparing the fire.

Setting the wooden table.

Rolling dough with the confidence of someone who had repeated the same movements thousands of times.

There were no recipes.

No measurements.

Only memory.

Only instinct.

The pie emerged from her hands as naturally as leaves emerge from a tree.

Spinach.

Wild greens.

Cheese from nearby shepherds.

Flour.

Olive oil.

Ingredients so simple they almost seemed insignificant.

Yet together they became something unforgettable.

We ate outdoors beneath the mountains.

The earth beneath our feet.

The wind moving through the trees.

The smell of herbs carried down from the slopes.

Everything tasted alive.

Nothing on Mars tastes alive.

Even after twelve years, I still miss that.

I miss tomatoes warmed by the sun.

Fresh bread.

Mountain water.

The scent of grass after summer rain.

Here, every gram of food is calculated.

Every drop of water measured.

On Earth, nature offered abundance without asking us to notice.

Perhaps that was our mistake.

Carl Sagan once reminded humanity that Earth is a tiny blue world suspended in darkness.

Not merely our birthplace.

Our responsibility.

Many dreamed of Mars as an escape.

A second chance.

A backup plan.

Sagan warned us otherwise.

Save Earth first.

Protect the miracle you already possess.

Only now, standing beneath a foreign sky, do I fully understand what he meant.

Mars teaches you the value of Earth.

Not because Mars is beautiful.

It is.

Not because Mars inspires wonder.

It does.

But because every day here reveals what Earth gave us for free.

Forests.

Rivers.

Birdsong.

Rain.

The smell of fertile soil.

The generosity of life itself.

Sometimes, late at night, I sit beside the workshop window and think of Avdella.

Of the Pindus Mountains glowing beneath the afternoon sun.

Of stone villages clinging to the slopes.

Of shepherd bells echoing across distant ridges.

Of children running without purpose except joy.

Those memories feel older than memory itself.

As if they belong not only to me, but to everyone who ever loved the land that raised them.

The colony sleeps.

The machines hum.

The red desert waits outside.

And somewhere inside me, the mountains remain.

Silent.

Green.

Endless.

The mountains remember what Mars cannot teach.

That a human being is not made only of ambition.

We are made of roots.

Of family.

Of stories.

Of food shared around wooden tables.

Of hands that plant seeds and hands that knead bread.

Of places that continue living inside us long after we have left them.

I came to Mars carrying a sewing machine.

But what truly crossed the void with me was something far older.

The mountains.

The soil.

The love of a small world that once seemed ordinary.

And now, from millions of kilometers away, feels sacred.

...to be continued...