Winds, spurned by the white-capped mountains to the east, blew across the valley plain in hacking spasms. The long stemmed grasses of the valley’s floor prostrated themselves obediently in the face of such violence. Directly in the path, a lone farmhouse stood as the only man made structure in the valley.

The house creaked, groaning and rattling, as the wind slammed. A bike leaning against the stairs of the front porch clattered to the ground, its back wheel spinning.

Inside the house, an old man, overalls covering his potatoe-shaped body, gently swayed back and forth in his rocking chair. One hand pawed directonlessly at the orange cat in his lap. The other gripped the arm of the chair in a tight claw. His feet, in their mismatched blue and black socks, barely reached the floor. A creased, yellow bound book, spine broken from use, made a tent over his spectacles on the lamp table. Looming over them was a brass flask that stank of whiskey and regret. In its reflection, the old man’s face was almost normal.