At 54, when the world knew him as a billionaire businessman, Elon Musk drove alone to his old home. Not a word to anyone.
He just left, like a silent pilgrimage into memory…
The window rolled down, the summer wind carrying dust and the scent of wildflowers. The car stopped next to what was left of the old farmhouse – just a leaning chimney and a few sun-bleached sidings.
He stepped out, gravel crunching under his shoes.
In that moment, he was no longer a billionaire. No longer an outlaw.
He was just Elon.
The barefoot boy with dreams bigger than the horizon.
He knelt by the old oak tree, placing a calloused hand on its rough bark.
“It seems we both lasted longer than they thought,” he whispered.
And in the silence that enveloped all, he whispered: “I invent the world. But my roots… they are always right here.”
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