Migration — Seasonal

On the ninth day, they reached the edge of the Howling Flats.

The sun had not yet cleared the eastern ridge when old Kaelen placed his hand on the weathered trunk of the sentinel oak. For a long moment, he stood motionless, feeling the faint, familiar thrum beneath the bark. Then he turned to the gathered families, their wagons already packed with woven baskets, salted fish, and rolled tents of oiled hide. seasonal migration

“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.” On the ninth day, they reached the edge of the Howling Flats

“Stay together,” Kaelen called out, his white hair whipping across his face. “And do not look at the stones for too long.” Then he turned to the gathered families, their

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.”

Mira began to notice things she had missed on previous migrations. The way the geese flew in perfect, patient V’s overhead, never seeming to tire. The way the last of the wild plums tasted sweeter after the first cold night. The way her grandmother’s voice, when she sang the old traveling songs, made the miles feel shorter.

“Do we have to go back north in the spring?” Mira asked quietly.