© 2026 by STORYTELLUS
KEEPER OF MEMORY
Near our homestay, There was a tiny little house with a tiny tin roof worn by time and a courtyard that seemed suspended in another era. Every morning, passing by there, I saw an elderly woman sitting in the shade. She always smiled. And that smile had something surprisingly familiar about it. One morning, while I was taking out the trash, I raised my hand for the usual greeting. She said something to me that I didn't understand. I stood still, a bit embarrassed, until with a gentle gesture she motioned for me to come in. I hesitated. Travelling teaches you to open up, but also to protect yourself. For an instant, mistrust prevailed. Then I thought: she is a little grandmother, what could possibly happen? And I went in. Inside, time seemed to slow down. The house was simple, essential. Every object seemed to have a story as long as her life. She showed me her hands, greasy with ointment, and two small earrings in the shape of golden stars. She was trying to put them in, but they slipped through her fingers. She smiled. She pointed at me. And she placed the stars in my palm. I took them gently and threaded them into her lobes, marked by time. When I had finished, her face lit up with a pure, immediate happiness, without filters.
she offered me tea. we sat together. we tried to talk while laughing, pointing at things, scrolling through the contacts on her phone: perhaps children, perhaps friends, perhaps memories. she made me repeat those names and laughed at my pronunciation, until i started laughing too. in that small space, without a common language, there existed a perfect understanding.
when i left the courtyard, i said goodbye. she looked at me with her slightly crooked smile and said: “number one!” perhaps one of the few english words she knew. perhaps the most important one. as i walked away, i felt a peace upon me that is difficult to explain. i realized that i knew almost nothing about that woman. i didn't know her age, her story, the losses she had gone through, nor the joys that had made her smile for an entire lifetime.
and yet her hands told of time. her house told of resilience. her smile told of everything she had chosen not to lose. those golden stars were perhaps not just earrings. perhaps they were a memory of youth, a gift received, a symbol cherished over the years. small objects that cross the seasons of life and become memory.
i wondered how many times we pass by people like this without really stopping. how many stories remain invisible because we don't have the time or the courage to enter an unknown courtyard. the elderly are living archives. they guard wars, loves, departures, waits, births, losses. they carry the weight of history on their shoulders and, despite everything, they continue to smile at strangers.
perhaps this is what really touched me: her willingness to open the door to a stranger, without a common language, without guarantees, without fear. in a world that teaches us to defend ourselves, she showed me the quiet strength of trust. and i wondered if true wisdom doesn't lie right here: continuing to open oneself to life, even after having gone through all its difficulties. that day, i didn't just help a woman put on two little stars. i touched an entire story. and i reminded myself that every human being we meet is a universe that deserves to be heard.
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