Gheorghe leaned on his weathered wooden staff, his eyes tracing the familiar movement of the flock. To anyone else, the sheep were a sea of white wool; to him, they were a family he had guarded since he was a boy. As the bells around their necks chimed a rhythmic, metallic song against the silence of the mountain, the opening notes of a flute drifted from the porch of the stâna (sheepfold).

As the last notes of the song faded into the wind, the stars began to pierce the velvet sky. Gheorghe whistled to his dogs and turned back toward the fire. The song wasn't just music; it was a promise that as long as the sheep moved across the ridges and the voices rose in harmony, the spirit of the stâna would never truly sleep.

It was the melody of "Dragi mi-s turma și stâna"—a song as old as the rocks themselves.

"The mountains always answer," Florin replied, his harmony weaving through hers like a mountain stream.

The "Jiana" rhythm—the heartbeat of the shepherd’s dance—pulsed through the small cabin. Outside, the younger shepherds began a slow, rhythmic stomp, their heavy boots hitting the earth in time with the song. It was 2022, and the world below was loud with engines and glowing screens, but up here, time had folded in on itself.

The sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks of the Southern Carpathians, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and gold. High in the alpine meadows, the air grew crisp, smelling of wild thyme and damp earth.