“Where the Silence Remains”

 

 

Last summer, I ventured deep into a remote corner of the Western Alps—far from any marked trail or tourist path—guided only by the rhythm of water and the whisper of stone. This hidden valley, cradled between emerald slopes and crowned by a spire of ancient rock, felt like stepping into a forgotten age.

 

There was a moment, just as the sun pierced the veil of stormy skies, when time seemed suspended. The light kissed the summit, and the river—restless and cold from glacial melt—sang a song as old as the mountains themselves. It was in that stillness, surrounded by the hum of alpine wind and the scent of wet earth, that I thought of Túrin Turambar, the tragic son of Húrin, whose fate was shaped by doom and shadow.

 

Like Túrin wandering through the wilds of Beleriand, this landscape felt both sanctuary and sorrow—a place where old stories sleep beneath the moss and stone. There’s something about these valleys that echoes the grief and grandeur of Tolkien’s legendarium. A place where the natural world speaks with mythic weight.

 

This photo is a fragment of that journey. A fleeting glimpse of something eternal.

 

 

Done