WEBVTT

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Ilya stood at the edge of the ridge,

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his boots sinking into the thick, velvet -like

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texture

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of the grass.

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Before him, the landscape rolled away like a

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crumpled quilt of emerald and moss, divided

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into precise squares by ancient, moss -covered stone

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fences.

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These dry -stack walls had stood for generations,

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carving the patchwork farmland into a jagged

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puzzle that climbed toward the horizon.

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The sky was a heavy shroud of slate

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grey, pressing down on the hills with the

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promise

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of a coming drizzle.

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It was the kind of weather that made

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the colors pop, the deep, saturated greens of

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the meadow

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looking almost luminous against the muted, overcast backdrop.

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Below him, a dozen sheep were scattered across

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the slopes like bits of fallen cloud, their

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wool matted and thick against the damp wind.

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They moved with a slow, rhythmic intention, grazing

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in the silence that only exists in

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the high country.

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Ilyas adjusted his collar, feeling the bite of

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the mist beginning to settle.

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He had walked these hills since he was

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a boy, and there was a comfort in

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the repetition

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of the terrain.

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The way the fences zigzagged over the crests,

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the way the ewes huddled near the gaps

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in

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the stones to find shelter from the draft.

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It was a landscape that demanded little and

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offered a deep, steady peace in return.

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As the first few drops of rain darkened

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the stones, he turned to head back toward

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the

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farmhouse tucked into the valley floor.

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Behind him, the sheep didn't look up.

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They simply turned their backs to the wind,

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becoming part of the landscape themselves.

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By the time he reached the gate, the

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world had blurred into shades of charcoal and

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pine,

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leaving the hills to drift quietly into the

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encroaching gray.