At the eastern mountain, The wounded man sat on the cold ground, his weathered face turned upward, watching the passing clouds with a hollow gaze. The wind carried a biting chill, a prelude to the coming winter, but he seemed unfazed. His thoughts were elsewhere, lost in the endless expanse of the sky.
Nearby, Fiona, his devoted wife, gathered firewood, her movements careful and deliberate. She paused, glancing at her husband. The faraway look in his eyes was all too familiar, yet today, something about it unsettled her. His gaze wasn't merely vacant; it was intent, almost as if he were searching for something in the heavens.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Fiona approached him, concern etched across her face. "Albus?" she called softly. When he didn't respond, she knelt beside him, her voice trembling slightly. "My love, what's wrong? Is everything alright?"
