A single, torn piece of her old, patched scarf, its edges frayed and softened by time, loosened by the wind, danced above her head. She took her first step away, the sound of a small stone crunching beneath her foot a sharp, clear note in the silence, and then, without turning back, she continued on, her heart beating with a quiet, steady strength.
And the mountain, a silent sentinel, waited.

The Book