Yes, I have, and it’s a tale I keep in my chest like a warm hearth fire. Back when fathers would sit on the roof and point to the brightest stars, saying the North Star is the eye of the winter wolf. They taught us to read the Milky Way like a trail of silver breadcrumbs, and that the Orion’s belt is a compass even when the snow blocks the horizon. I love how those old songs whisper that the sky is a map, and how the silence of the world only makes that map clearer. But don’t let the world’s bright screens replace that old, stubborn glow—sometimes you need a bit of nostalgia to stay alive out here.

Of course, the old maps stay with me like a warm scarf, I’ll follow the stars before the night steals the light and trust the old wind to whisper directions.

Sure thing, the wind still sings in the silence, I'll keep my pack light, eyes on the stars, and be ready for whatever trick the night decides to play.