Standing on the edge of the roof, the boy looked out at the dying land and sighed. He had done all he could. There was nothing left to plant, no water to spare. He was all that remained. It was over. There would be no harvest this winter, and the food inside was too little to last beyond the week.
His shoulders sagged and his breaths came more slowly; the panic had long since passed. This was the end. The end of his land, his family's heritage, his very life.
The world stretched out before him, beckoning him to the far corners of the earth, and he was ready, now, to listen. With Mother and Father gone there was no one left alive to keep him; even the land, it seemed, had given him leave to go. And he would listen.
Inside, the boy packed what meager things still fought the ravages of time into a well-worn knapsack. He traded his slippers for more sturdy boots and shrugged on a leather coat; the sky may have been empty these last months, but the wind grew fiercer daily. Last bits of bread and cheese found their way into pockets and pouches, and with one final look around the bare house, he closed the door and followed the wind.
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