Outside the Pollica Orphanage, what falls from the sky is not snow, but burnt ashes. Pale and deathly still, they hover above this space.
The flickering firelight beneath the mural becomes the only color in this world. The executor sits facing the fireplace, while the shadow behind her stands silently for a long time. Their gazes meet over the exquisite vessels.
"The arrogant king has dropped her crown, and not one member of the expedition survived. The villages along the way are ablaze, the rampant dragon perished from the plague." The executor, nonchalantly toying with a wine glass, glanced at the person behind her.
"The script you wrote has ended. Everything has returned to its endpoint."
"How many winters have the children passed now?"
"Little Helola always clamors to see dandelions, and I always tell her, until spring arrives..."
