Adrastea walks a narrow mountain trail as the sun shines softly and the air smells of resin and blooming thyme.
She sings quietly, almost in a whisper, yet her voice carries far — the old mountain melodies sound purest here. They weave together with the gentle jingle of beads and the light rustle of the wind that occasionally lifts the hem of her short skirt, brushing her sun-kissed thighs.
Marmots peek out from their burrows, roe deer freeze mid-step, even a distant bear beneath the waterfall briefly lifts its head — as if the entire range held its breath just to listen.
She looks as though she sprouted from these very rocks and dwarf pines: barefoot, wearing only a linen crop top and the short skirt she embroidered and beaded herself — free, light, happy.
Adrastea walks on and sings, because on an ordinary warm day like this, the mountains truly need nothing more than her voice and that quiet, joyful laughter that sometimes breaks through the melody.
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