“Do we have to go back north in the spring?” Mira asked quietly.
Ren’s expression softened. “The flats aren’t kind to anyone. But we’re not like the lowland clans who stay put. We move. We survive.”
“The sap is slowing,” he said, his voice carrying on the crisp autumn air. “The oak knows before the frost does. We have three dawns.” seasonal migration
On the ninth day, they reached the edge of the Howling Flats.
The tribe moved into the valleys with a palpable sense of relief. Wagons were unpacked for the last time. Goats were hobbled in the meadows. The children, Mira among them, were sent to gather reeds for bedding while the adults began reinforcing the winter lodges—half-buried structures that had stood for generations. “Do we have to go back north in the spring
Mira looked up at the stars, sharp and bright above the valley. Somewhere to the south, the sentinel oak was dropping its leaves, standing bare against the first frost. And somewhere to the north, the spring grounds were sleeping under a blanket of snow, dreaming of the day when the people would return.
“They’re not ghosts,” her grandmother had told her once, when Mira admitted her fear. “They’re reminders. Every stone is someone who walked this path before us. They aren’t watching. They’re waiting. There’s a difference.” But we’re not like the lowland clans who stay put
Mira sat with her grandmother, leaning against her shoulder. The baby was asleep in the lodge. Ren was across the fire, laughing with the scouts.