That's how we spent hours: walking on the volcanic earth, talking about everything and nothing at once, laughing out loud at my attempts to pronounce the names of places, knowing each other in our virtues, living in the present and breathing the purest air my lungs had ever recorded.
In each beautiful place we visited, we stopped, settled next to each other and took the typical photo together. They were no longer captures stolen from a distance on a cold beach; They were real images of two people holding each other's pace. In the same way, every new food we tried in the small places along the way—from rye bread baked under the hot earth to smoked fish—we photographed meticulously.
We put together a digital album that became our most precious treasure. Looking at my phone screen at the end of the day, I would go through the images with my heart beating at a happy pace. Those photographs were the exact record of our metamorphosis; a constant reminder of what we were in our misery and, above all, of the survivors we are today.
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