Little House
The little house sits, no, tucks itself between the folds of the undulating hills. The trees sway gently, unperturbed by the sight of an impending onslaught of thunder and lighting. Then, a light within the house exclaims and dims, but only in one window, framing a sort of signal, only for you.Again, it repeats and dims off like a heart beat.
The winds whispers quietly, rolling lowly over the thin blades of grass at your feet, in wave forms, each one slightly different, slightly warmer or cooler than the preceding one.
You choose the brave on, treading down a gentle but ever increasingly steep descent, with no moon to guide, no leading sound that beckons... only the faint suspicion that the light asks for it to be discovered.
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