Everything here, everything is theirs. Steep slopes, trails, spruce trees, rocks, old quarries. Everything belongs to you. And more. Everything that surrounds them is them. Their grandfathers created quarries, paved the paths by the sea and the roads along the hill. They walked along there, looking at the same roofless hut on Užab and the same green, calm spring sea. Grandparents, fathers, sons and grandchildren, they are all the same. Are only other branches of the same root, other shoots of the same tree, sprouting from this eternal, hard, rocky land.