After the breakfast at the Elders' Block was wrapped up, the sky that had been blessing the Velmourns with its quiet changed its mind.
Yes, it started snowing.
Snowflakes drifted through the air, settling on rooftops and fading into the pale fog that hung over the streets.
Outside one of the smaller houses sat Vandra, wrapped in a thick, patched shawl. In front of her was a weaving tool that she used at the Weaving Hearth, the rhythmic sound of her weaving tool tapping against the wooden frame echoed softly.
She sat cross-legged, a small pile of dark blue cloth folded neatly beside her. Her hands moved slowly, with a strange calm.
Four people sat nearby—two women, an older man, and a young boy who didn't look older than twelve.
They were all her neighbours who had come to check up on her, bringing with them warm blankets. They didn't talk loudly; there was something sacred about the quietness of that street now.
