A Voice in the Winter
The air was crisp with the promise of winter, and I mourned for the Treesingers. Brother Ash was already mute, his tree always the first to color and shed its leaves. He would not speak again for many months.
The air was crisp with the promise of winter, and I mourned for the Treesingers. Brother Ash was already mute, his tree always the first to color and shed its leaves. He would not speak again for many months.
The air was crisp with the promise of winter, and I mourned for the Treesingers. Brother Ash was already mute, his tree always the first to color and shed its leaves. He would not speak again for many months.
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