Stone Circle Standing here in front of you.

The old man trailed through the mist. She heard something move in the underbrush (it was only the weasel, dropping); as she canted her head towards him she saw the incredulous look on his face, and then caught his words.

I am... Better, but, I am weak. She sank backwards and sat there with her shoulder leaning against a young aspen sapling, and it shuddered from her sudden movement.

She felt very much closer to the weasel between them, rather than anything lively.

How is home? How are the people faring.