Several days later, on April 11.
A light morning drizzle fell over the place, creating a white curtain. Golden rays filtered through the clouds like cotton flakes, sifted by the fine drizzle.
The green grass of Kiran Mountain swayed in the wind, and some blades bent under the weight of raindrops falling from the sky onto the damp earth. The air was filled with the scent of wildflowers that had sprouted after winter and were releasing their pollen.
The animals that inhabited the place moved in groups across the green meadow, brimming with life. In the distance, you could hear the murmur of the stream and the roar of waterfalls cascading down the mountain. The birdsong filled the air with vitality.
From the sky, farmlands could be seen; among them, farmers worked tirelessly: some pulled donkeys, others harvested, and still others cut wheat stalks.
Everyone looked up when they noticed the movement of a long caravan climbing up the mountainside, advancing slowly like a worm.
