A man gazes briefly at the hill covered in white snow.
No other color appears on the snow-white field that resembles death, but there are things rising from it like stone flowers.
Gravestones.
Yes, this was a cemetery. And this man was a visitor paying respects. The man pulls his expensive fur cloak up to his neck to block the cold and carefully stops in front of a particular gravestone he remembers.
Others had long inscriptions listing tribal songs or life achievements, but the inscription on this gravestone was so short it was almost laughable for its simplicity.
'A great father and grandfather.'
This was John White's grave.
"...Heh, really."
Though knowing it was disrespectful toward the deceased, the visitor couldn't help bursting into laughter that kept coming.
A great father and grandfather.
