The wind came from the other end of the canyon, passed through the tall grass on the wasteland, and beat on the facade of the stone house.
The white-gray walls are inlaid with rough river pebbles, and there are tiny moss growing in the cracks between the stones. Strings of sun-dried corn hang under the eaves. When the wind blows, they cast jagged shadows at the door, like silent bells.
The afternoon light is very slow, as if it has been cut by the mountain peaks, with khaki and golden precipitation. The cliff in the distance is like a broken back, with dark color pressing on the horizon; while in the land under your feet, cracks are winding, leading to the invisible river valley.
The people inside were sharpening their knives.
The sound of iron dragging on the grindstone is long and crisp, like strings blown thin by the wind.
She was sitting at the dim table, her back cut in half by the window frame. Her eyes were hidden in the deep shadow, and only the lines of her brow bones and the corner of her lips highlighted by the scenery could be seen.
Her name is Avila.
People in the village said that her grandmother escaped from the other side of the sea - with a box of hand-drawn maps and a heart stained with salt.
But here, there is no sea, only wind, rocks, dust and the occasional caravans that come here.
Today, the wind is stronger than usual, carrying the drums at the other end of the canyon. That was a sound that only sounded on the eve of a festival - but at this time, there shouldn't be a festival.
Avila stopped and gently turned the blade over in his palm, as if confirming some silent omen.
The wind outside blew the drying net, and the shadow of corn fell on her shoulders.
The stone house seemed to be pushed by the wind, and even its roots were trembling in the soil.
Conception:-