The wind howled as twilight descended, but despite that sound a general feeling of silence and emptiness penetrated Jorge as he returned from his hunting. As the familiar crimson hues of the roof of his home came into sight, he smiled and quickened his step.
It had not been a successful hunt. Few were, these days. The game had thinned out, and winter was quickly showing its dread and desolate face more and more, scattering what little game there was into distant places. Jorge was worried about the coming months, but the sight of the home he had started out here always gave him hope. He had stores there to last, and his wife and child would be there waiting.
Grinning again, Jorge began the last few steps to home, and in the months to come, to defy the winter and be renewed again in Spring. As it had been for the last few years, as it would be to the end of his days.
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