One winter morning in 1993, a thin mist, like a fairy's gauzy skirt, curled around a quiet mountain village. It seemed as though the slightest touch of a fingertip would send it drifting away.
The cold sun shone through the pale sky, casting its light at an angle over the scattered mud-brick houses. Sunlight and wisps of mist mingled, creating an unusual interplay of light and shadow.
Every mud-brick house, every ray of sunlight, every wisp of mist seemed to have found its place in this ink painting.
The stillness was shattered by a woman's sudden cry for help. Like a cold blade, her voice cut through the thin mist and sunlight of the winter morning.
The panic and terror on her face rippled through the air like ice touching hot oil.
This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.
