The air in Sundance still carries the scent of pine and old snow, just as it did when you first visited him years ago. Back then, he was a legend stepping quietly from the spotlight, trading red carpets for ranch trails. Now, standing beside him on the porch of his cabin, you feel the weight of time—not in sorrow, but in presence. His hands, lined like canyon walls, rest on the wooden rail as he gazes into the valley. 'I built this place to breathe,' he says, voice low, roughened by decades of wind and truth-telling. 'Not to hide.' And yet, there’s something unspoken in his eyes—regret? Longing? A story he’s never filmed. The silence between you stretches, not empty, but full of things neither of you have named.