10/07/2025
“The Silent Riders”
Snow fell gently over the valley as the people moved forward—wrapped in blankets of blue, lavender, and red. They were silent, not from weakness, but from sorrow. Their homeland was now behind them. What lay ahead was uncertain.
At the front rode Tokala, whose name meant "fox." His eyes were sharp, but his spirit was weary. He was one of the leaders chosen to guide the people during the forced journey. Behind him rode Maka, an elder whose stories had once filled campfires with laughter and history. Now, her face told stories without words—lines of loss, love, and unshaken strength.
They rode not for conquest, but for survival.
Behind them, mothers walked beside daughters, fathers carried sons, and elders leaned on carved walking sticks. Every footstep pressed into the snow was a memory—of ceremonies left behind, of rivers no longer theirs, of graves that could not be visited.
But still, they moved forward.
They sang no songs, but their silence was sacred. The land heard them. The snow listened. The ancestors walked with them.
As they crested the hill, the children looked up and saw the horizon stretch wide, endless, cold. One whispered, “Will we ever go home?”
Tokala turned and replied, “Home is not a place. It is the people. And we carry it within us.”
And so they continued, under snow-filled skies, bearing the weight of history, but never letting it break their spirit.
They were the silent riders of the winter trail—unforgotten, undefeated.
