the wind blows (4)

The faintest echo of footsteps follows, soft but deliberate. The wind blows harder now, rattling the windows as if demanding entry. The sound rises, a crescendo that drowns out all else. And then, as quickly as it began, it stops.

The silence is deafening. Even the house seems to hold its breath. A figure appears at the edge of the plain, barely visible against the encroaching dusk. It moves with purpose, a dark silhouette against the fading light.

Closer now, the figure reveals itself as a man, his coat flapping wildly in the wind. His face is obscured by a scarf pulled high and a hat pulled low, but his eyes are sharp, scanning the horizon with a mix of caution and resolve.