Sleepy Fox Hollow einigung

river fell into step alongside him. "it is easier said than done," mahler said with a dry twist of his mouth. "for my part, after diapora, i attached myself to land. every place i lived after this became part of my identity. not the volves who lived there. not those who i led."
perhaps with stigmata had been the first and the last time that mahler had truly led for the passion of it. since then he had stayed at the helm only because it made the most sense. a sense of duty rather than drive, and through the years it had cracked and bled with the dryness of boredom.
now he had no one to lead and it had never made his chest feel quite so freed.
mahler knew in this moment that if the hollow became something more than he and his family, he would not wish to step up into that role again. wylla was more than capable should she have the want.
the land was expanding, rounding into the soft edges and jagged detailing of the place above the lake. and the familiarity burned him; the way he knew each rugged path plagued mahler, until he fell into a warm if solemn silence.