The sky above the village suddenly turned pitch black, as if ink had been spilled across it. The clouds grew heavy, and the wind vanished. The air felt stifling and tense; there was a crushing weight on the chest with every breath.
Hundreds of birds began descending in silent circles. Not a single flap of their wings could be heard.
Children dropped the stones in their hands, staring upward without bending down. The hands of the woodcutters loosened around their axes. No one moved; they were frozen in place.
Every head was tilted toward the sky. Breaths were cut short, hearts thudding as if lodged in throats. No one dared to speak.
A woman was carrying a full jug taken from the river. Her steps suddenly slowed, her hand trembled. The jug slipped from her grasp, shattered against the stone ground, and water spread up to her ankles.
"What's happening?" she whispered without lifting her eyes. But her voice was lost—everyone's attention was fixed on the same point: the sky.
