The dream was always the same.
He’s standing in a forest and it’s snowing. Large flakes that sting his eyes. But instead of the bitter cold that the soft white blanket usually brings, it’s warm; hot even, and he can hardly breathe. In the distance, wailing. Three white berries fall from the mighty boughs at his feet.
And in the distance, the wailing grows.
Categories: The Last Seanachie