When I set foot on Easter Island, the sea breeze, wrapped in an ancient sense of loneliness, hit me. Looking down at the scattered Moai statues in the Rano Kau crater, those half-finished statues still maintained the posture of struggling out of the rock wall, as if time had suddenly frozen. At four in the morning, I squatted on Ahu Tongariki waiting for the sunrise. When the silhouettes of the fifteen Moai were dyed golden red by the morning glow, someone behind me sobbed softly - it was a sacredness that words cannot describe. The guide pointed to the mottled rock paintings behind the statues and said: "We call it the 'Cannibal Cave', but our ancestors didn't eat flesh, but memories." Finally, I stepped barefoot on the pink coral sand at Anakena Beach. The waves rolled the fragments of the statues over my ankles. Suddenly, I understood why the islanders said: "The Moai are not relics. They are just heading towards their hometown, always returning home."