• The Wanderer’s Tales

It begins with a change in the wind—subtle, but sure. The leaves shift tone, a hush rolls through the streets, and then the first drop strikes my forehead like a cool fingerprint. I look up and smile as the sky opens wide. I run for

By June, the days are stretching to their fullest. The sun lingered long into evening, casting a golden edge on everything it touched. I found myself walking an old gravel path at dusk, following a line of swaying grasses and buzzing crickets. The warmth of

It is the final day of May, and the air carries the subtle weight of the coming season. I walk a familiar trail through the old forest, where spring’s green has deepened, and the birds grow quieter, as if conserving their song for warmer days.

At the edge of a monastery was a small walled garden. I entered just before dusk, when the shadows grew long and bees made their final rounds. Peonies bloomed in one corner, heavy and still, while a frog croaked once at the edge of the

I followed the river as it ran bright and full through the May countryside, its banks thick with reeds and wildflowers. Everything shimmered—sunlight on water, dragonflies in mid-air, even the smooth stones beneath the surface. I sat on a large rock, letting my toes dip

On a sunlit afternoon, I climbed the low hills that rose beyond the village, each step drawing me closer to the sky. The wind picked up as I reached the ridge, cool and playful, tugging at my sleeves and hair. I stood still, letting it

A narrow path wound through an orchard where the petals of apple blossoms had begun to fall. They fluttered down with the breeze like pale pink snow, settling into a soft blanket on the grass. I walked slowly, the ground beneath my feet whispering with

By mid-May, the trees had become lush with leaves. What once had been bare silhouettes were now complete shelters of green. I wandered into the woods, where the sun filtered through in speckled patterns, dappling the path ahead. I found an old stone bench beneath

In late May, I reached the coast. The sea lay stretched before me like a sleeping dragon, breathing with the rhythm of the tide. I wandered the shoreline, the cool waves teasing my ankles, the sand shifting beneath each step. Far out, a sailboat moved

In a small town square, the Saturday market was winding down. Where there had been crowds and chatter, only a few stalls remained. A flute player sat in the shade, offering soft notes to no one in particular. The scent of ripe peaches hung in

It had rained in the night. By morning, the sun had returned, gentle but sure, bathing the landscape in golden light. As I walked a narrow trail between fields of tall grass and blooming hawthorn, the scent rose to greet me – rich, loamy, alive.

I had not noticed the silence until I heard it broken—a high-pitched cry slicing through the sky. Looking up, I saw them: sleek, dark-winged swallows gliding above, looping effortlessly through the air. A woman, feeding birds at the edge of the pier, followed my gaze.