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... eonard, on his knees, exhausted, wept. These were not sobs. Not wails. It was a dry, silent cry, the pure manifestation of emptiness. The tears, indistinguishable from the rain running down his face, washed away the dirt, but not the pain.

His trembling fingers traced the inscriptions on the tombstones. "Leah Winters." The memory of Evelyn, a pale ray amid the storm, brought a sharp pang to his chest. "Ahh... it’s true... Mount Lichtwelt is never wrong... is it, Eve?"

Hours disso ...

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