The Last Seanachie

Warm Snow

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.

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