A few days later, Leon could be seen atop a small, weather-worn carriage creaking its way along a narrow path that cut through a densely packed forest. The trees here grew unnaturally close to one another, their thick trunks rising like silent pillars into a canopy so tight that sunlight could barely slip through. What little light did manage to break past the leaves came in thin, fractured rays, painting the ground in shifting patterns of gold and shadow.
The air itself felt heavy—damp with the scent of moss, bark, and something faintly charred that lingered beneath it all. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable unless one paid attention. But Leon noticed.
He always noticed.
The slow, rhythmic clopping of hooves echoed softly through the forest as the donkey pulled the carriage forward with stubborn consistency. It wasn't fast. It wasn't elegant. But it didn't tire easily, and more importantly, it didn't complain.
Unlike people.
