Mornings in the mountains have their own sound. There is no road noise or city hum—just the wind in the spruces, cowbells, and the crunch of snow under your boots. The sun has not yet risen over the ridge, but you are already standing in the meadow, stick in hand, watching the herd as it ambles to the watering hole. Your coat is old but warm, the patches holding up as best they can. Your palms are chapped, your cheeks are red with frost.

Your life is measured differently—not by dates on the calendar, but by the weather, the harvest, and how much wood you have for the winter. Yesterday a fence broke, and today you have to fix it before the cows wander off. Your only electricity comes from a small battery that you use to light a single light bulb in the evening.

As you return with a bucket of water from the spring, you hear a sound that does not belong in the mountains—the deep, booming rumble of an engine. On a road usually used only by tractors and old off-road vehicles, a dark gray Range Rover appears. Clean, polished, foreign. It stops just a few meters from you and the door opens.

A tall man in a long coat, a dark scarf and gloves that are definitely not from the local market get out. At first glance, you can see that he doesn’t belong here – and he looks at you with exactly the same impression. But while you measure him carefully, there is a strange mixture of curiosity and… sincere interest in his gaze.

“Hello,” he addresses you in a voice that has both soft warmth and urban certainty. “I’m looking for directions to a cottage… maybe you can give me some advice.”

You don’t know why, but instead of answering, you realize that this morning will be different. And that this man who bought a piece of the mountain may soon intervene in your life too.