Seasonal Migration _best_ Instant

No one questioned him. For three hundred years, the people of the Alder Valley had listened to the sentinel oak. They were not farmers, not city-dwellers. They were followers of the green wave—a seasonal migration that traced the arc of the continent from the southern wetlands to the northern evergreen forests and back again.

“Stay together,” Kaelen called out, his white hair whipping across his face. “And do not look at the stones for too long.” seasonal migration

“They’re not ghosts,” her grandmother had told her once, when Mira admitted her fear. “They’re reminders. Every stone is someone who walked this path before us. They aren’t watching. They’re waiting. There’s a difference.” No one questioned him

On the ninth day, they reached the edge of the Howling Flats. They were followers of the green wave—a seasonal

“The sap is slowing,” he said, his voice carrying on the crisp autumn air. “The oak knows before the frost does. We have three dawns.”

Mira looked up at the stars, sharp and bright above the valley. Somewhere to the south, the sentinel oak was dropping its leaves, standing bare against the first frost. And somewhere to the north, the spring grounds were sleeping under a blanket of snow, dreaming of the day when the people would return.