The moment I crossed the hill, the wind blew from different directions, carrying the message of altitude and the scent of distant lands. It was then that I understood that the depth of travel is actually the depth of the soul—how much of your true self you are willing to invest in experiencing it determines how many years the memories can extend. I'm used to slowing down on my journeys, even stopping, allowing the scenery to seep into my pores, rather than just fleetingly glancing at my skin. Once, I walked all day in the rain, soaked to the bone, only to witness a double rainbow spanning the entire sky at dusk. That awe still resurfaces whenever I recall it, like a silver coin polished brighter and brighter by time. The depth of travel is this ability to transform the moment into eternity; it turns an ordinary afternoon into a story that can never be fully told. As I crossed hill after hill, I discovered that the real hills weren't outside, but within my heart—those fears, prejudices, and habits are the obstacles that need to be overcome. And when I finally crossed them, looking back, those hurdles that once seemed insurmountable have become graceful curves in the scenery, adding rich layers to my memories.