The meeting place is a secret. It is only revealed that very morning, after we have carried out our site inspections. We place the stool on a mound of stones that have been unearthed and gathered. It strikes me as an ancient burial site; it is the perfect stage. All around us, dozens of large olive trees are slowly recovering from the disease that turned the region into a graveyard of stumps. This is a place of new beginnings; as the sun sets, they arrive: nearly two hundred spectators gather in the field. We are in a small village at the southern tip of the peninsula, and the resilient community hosting us is capable of achieving what many would consider impossible. In just a few hours, they’ve laid out the space, bringing everything from platforms to wine, to welcome the many people arriving to share their visions. A fiery sunset sets the scene for our writing; they call them the ‘last fires’ – marvellous colours followed by the black of a night that comes alive with voices; with these people, we feel inspired to invent the dawn as well.