The sun had not yet cleared the eastern ridge when old Kaelen placed his hand on the weathered trunk of the sentinel oak. For a long moment, he stood motionless, feeling the faint, familiar thrum beneath the bark. Then he turned to the gathered families, their wagons already packed with woven baskets, salted fish, and rolled tents of oiled hide.
Mira nodded, pulling the knot tight. “Last time, I dreamed of the faces in the stones.” seasonal migration
“They’re not ghosts,” her grandmother had told her once, when Mira admitted her fear. “They’re reminders. Every stone is someone who walked this path before us. They aren’t watching. They’re waiting. There’s a difference.” The sun had not yet cleared the eastern
Mira began to notice things she had missed on previous migrations. The way the geese flew in perfect, patient V’s overhead, never seeming to tire. The way the last of the wild plums tasted sweeter after the first cold night. The way her grandmother’s voice, when she sang the old traveling songs, made the miles feel shorter. Mira nodded, pulling the knot tight
“The sap is slowing,” he said, his voice carrying on the crisp autumn air. “The oak knows before the frost does. We have three dawns.”