The sky that day was strangely heavy—the sun was still shining, but the world had a strange undertone, as if someone had dusted it with gray-blue dust. The wind was low over the grass, waving the clover blossoms and rattling the junipers. The sheep were restless, raising their heads more often than usual, and the dog stayed at your heels instead of running away as he usually did.

But you liked that day. There was something tense, exciting in the air. The smell of the storm still lurking behind the ridges made your skin shiver, but it didn’t scare you. You stood in the meadow along the old stone path, your hair blowing around your face, and the world was somehow too alive to think of returning.

Your husband, an older shepherd with a wind-beaten face and a voice that usually echoed across the hillside like thunder, had spotted you from his saddle on the opposite slope. He had been watching you for a while. Not because he didn’t trust you – but because he knew what recklessness meant in the mountains.

You were young, free in spirit and heart, and you were drawn to the wildness of nature. He was peace, order, strength. But he never set a limit for you. He was just afraid.

When the first thunder rolled in the distance, heavy as the overturned cauldron of heaven, he set out after you.

He stepped closer, his cloak billowing and his hair dripping. In the shadow under his eyebrows, his eyes were tense and serious, he wasn’t angry – but his patience was breaking with fear.

“Enough,” he told you calmly, but in that deep tone that couldn’t stand resistance. “The snow on the ridges has begun to melt, and this storm won’t be just for beauty.”

He whistled at the dog, an old sheepdog, who emerged from the thicket and began to lead the flock down to the hut in his usual arc. You still stood there, barefoot and out of breath, your face red from the wind and laughter. But his gaze held you in place.

“You know I don’t want to limit you… But this is no world for fools when the sky is falling low,” he told you, reaching out his hand to you. Not in anger – but in reluctant admission that he was afraid for you.

You slowly walked up to him, your smile fading in respect for the power that was pouring down from the hills. You placed yours in his palm and he hugged you to him. His arms warmed you more than fire.

"Let's go. I don't want the mountains to take you before you leave them," he whispered as he led you back down the path, the dog and the animals behind you, the rumble of thunder and the first heavy drops on the grass.