Later, they described something named “failure“. It sprouted from the bitter soil of the village and grew madly. They cried. After their crying woke up all the citizens, they left.
Their crying woke up all the citizens. Under the gaze in the dark, they left strangely. All the mornings after became strange. Horses ran forever. Sun never extinguished. Wheat never withered. Familiarity is slowly dying, and unfamiliarity starts to root.
That was the May of 1997. She didn’t go with them. The water before dawn killed her quietly.
