From the publisher: The story of one small village lost high in the mountains, and its small number of inhabitants—each of them a little bit of a character, a little bit of a grumbler, and in each there are real treasures of the spirit.
From the author: “Grandmother used to say—old people are closest to heaven, and children are closest too. Old people, because they’re soon leaving, and children, because they’ve only just arrived. The first already begin to guess, and the second still haven’t forgotten what heaven smells like. I was small and silly. I listened half-heartedly, fidgeted. I thought: well, what’s so complicated? Heaven smells like air. Sometimes warm, sometimes prickly. Or like rain—when it rains. Or like snow. And generally, there—right there nearby—stand on tiptoe, and you can touch it. When you live on the edge of a blue ravine, it isn’t hard at all—you can reach up to heaven.
I’ve long since stopped being little and, probably, stopped being silly too. I don’t know how many days I’ve been given, and whether tomorrow will ever come. But one thing I’m absolutely sure of: heaven smells the way my grandmother’s hands smelled. Like freshly baked bread, dried apples, and thyme.”