In that farmhouse, every place has a name: s haus, the kitchen, where simple dishes were prepared for everyday meals; der kèlder, the cellar, for storing food for long periods; der gòrtn, the vegetable garden, where her grandmother grew lettuce, courgettes, beetroot, cabbage and beans. Every corner was a gesture, every object a story. And the fire symbolised the bond between people.
Outside, the snow stopped falling. And inside, on the wall, among the shadows, something moved. Maybe just a trick of the light. Or maybe not.
Maria did not turn around. She stood there, her hands resting on her knees and her heart beating to the rhythm of the fire again for the first time in years.
In Mòcheno der heart, its root identical to the English ‘heart’ and similar to the German ‘das Herz’, means 'the hearth', but it is not just a word. It is the heart of the house, the point from which everything starts and to which everything returns. In Mòcheno culture, fire is not just for warmth: it keeps the family together, it guards the voices of those who are no longer with us, it illuminates the language that still lives within the walls of the maso. Every time someone says the word der heart, it rekindles that ancient bond between people and their land. It is a word that speaks of warmth, presence, and belonging. It narrates the essence of a community: simple, tangible, profound. Because in the heart of the maso, as in the Mòcheno language, the fire never goes out—it continues to gently burn, under the ashes, keeping alive the memory of who we are.
