In the bright blue sky, clouds like fluffy cotton balls, drifted. They didn't know where they would be taken by the sweeping wind. Like the prisoners of the wind, they simply drifted. Yet, even as a prisoner, they gave momentary relief to those under them from the burning sun.

But the sun was not at fault either. It was the people who had begged for its warmth during the bone-freezing winter. And now, as it spread its warmth in the spring, the people sought for shelters.

But it wasn't the people's fault either. They could not change nature as they desire, nor could they stall its changes. It was the Wheel of Time that kept moving, altering the world, ignoring the suffering of men.

But even Time was not at fault; for it was people who desired for time to change, hoping to escape their sufferings, only to find new discomfort in the shift.

Though no one can change the flow of Time, the wind can alter its own. And with its ever changing flow, the flowers that filled the vast field underneath the azure sky swayed in different directions. The petals that were separated from their flowers, blowing with the wind, felt like a colourful snowfall. Some of those petals flew and fell on the doorstep of a house that seemed to exist in its own world.

Even though the field the house was in was quite big, the house itself wasn't. It was a small house. From that house came a soft sound of humming, accompanied with the rhythmic clung of metal. Its door opened to a hall. The hall had a sofa in its centre. In front of it was a fireplace. Though after the winter, the embers of it were long gone cold. On top of the fireplace was a vase filled with colourful flowers, seemed to have freshly plucked from the field outside. Behind the vase, on the wall hung a wide sword. It was tarnished with scratches from the countless battles it had been part of alongside its wielder. Each of its scratches was proof of its wielder's glory.

Beside the sofa, on the left, was a window. The wind coming from it flapped the curtains restlessly. Behind the sofa was a piece of embroidery, perhaps crafted by the lady who hummed in the kitchen beside it.

Like a flower swaying to the wind outside, the lady waved. Her dark brown hair tied in a loose ponytail trailed behind her. Her every move as she picked up things looked like a dance step. The sizzles and smoke of her cooking occasionally halted her humming to cough. Though it wasn't the sign of any illness, it was the mark of the flavour her cooking was gaining.

In front of the kitchen was a staircase. It went behind the wall in front of the sofa, leading to the top floor. On the top floor was a corridor in front of two rooms that sat beside each other. At the end of the corridor was a window, flooding the narrow passage with light.

The first room had a small bed attached to the wall on the right side. Just beside the bed was a small open closet. The closet had three shelves and a cabinet at the bottom. The top two shelves had some books stacked and the last one was filled with random things lying around. The cabinet was closed, maybe it held clothes or maybe some secrets.

In front of the closet was a study table and a chair. Between them was a window, letting a beam of light inside, unravelling the dancing dust that went unnoticed to the naked eyes. The dust might tell the room was forgotten, but the opened book on the study table and the clean, tended bed told otherwise.

The second room had a bigger and wider bed on the left side, telling that there lived two souls together. At the end of the bed was a tall wide mirror, beneath which was a long cabinet with two compartments. In front of the mirror was a small stool. The cushion of the stool was compressed in its centre, telling about the mistress from the kitchen who had sat on it countless-time, getting ready for the man who snoozed on a chair in the centre of the room.

The man had dark hair that shined purple under the light that came from the window in front of him. The index finger of his right hand was stuck between the book that laid on his lap. On the back of his right hand was a deep scar, accompanied by one more on his neck. The scars weren't the mark of his defeat¸ but testaments to the battles he had walked out victorious.

Though the man once might have been feared on the battlefields at that time he was jolted awake from the soft voice that called for him from outside the room. He replied in haste, "Y-yes!"

"Lunch is ready, come down."

"Yeah, I'll be there."

"Come fast...and where is he?"

"I don't know, might be outside."

The lady walked down the stairs and went outside. Standing on the porch, she scanned the field. After looking around, she found the boy she was looking for. The boy had the same dark hair that shined purple in the sunlight like the man above. He ran through the field, chasing behind some butterflies.

The lady walked a few steps and extended her hand. She opened her mouth to call the boy's name, but the name couldn't come out. The wind that blew past just in front of her, startled her. Before long, she found herself falling. But the fall was so long. As she fell deeper, the flower field in front of her shattered like glass. And soon she couldn't see anything but darkness from inside her casket.

The casket was being pulled in the grave, under the sky which had no clouds. But with the ending of autumn and arrival of winter, they might not be needed; for the grave needed warmth not shades.

A few steps away, standing before the grave were four women. The tracks of tears for two women that flowed were still apparent on their faces, while for the other two they still trickled. One of the women, still weeping, carried a baby in her arms. The baby whimpered and moved his head around, restlessly looking for his mother. He looked everywhere, but the only place he couldn't was in the grave.

On the mound, on which the grave was dug, was a single tree standing behind the four women. To the wheel of Time, it had lost all its leaves.

As the last shovel of soil was pored over the grave, the lonely leaf that still clung to the tree left its protection and fall over the grave.

Beside that leaf fell a bouquet of white flowers thrown by one of the women standing there. She couldn't look at the grave and turned around as she wiped her tears that still continued to flow.

The woman who was standing a few steps away from her asked the woman who had the baby in her hands, "Venet, where is Greta?"

Venet's eyes that had been darted on the grave blinked. "I...don't know."

With the exchange between the two women, the silence of the mound was once again regained. All the four women looked around but Greta was nowhere near the grave.