November story #9

Another shieling hut, looking into the rising sun. Far below, the valley ambled down to the sea. Even further away the faint outlines of houses marched along the southern horizon. Wooden posts marked the way there, but the trail would remain empty that morning. The padlock on the hut's door was broken, not through rust but through force. The door itself was smashed in, and the hut's interior thrown around. No, it wasn't the result of strong winds. Dibidil's bothy had withstood far worse than what that year's gales had blown at it.

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