A small cottage near the forest. The roof of tin. The door painted red. The walls white, inside and out.
Beside the cottage, a brook. Out of the mountains it burbles, then through the forest, then out across rolling fields to join the river some miles away.
In the brook plays a child. She is up to her knees, splashing up and down. There is a sandy patch on the bottom of the brook, at a place where the water widens and the land doesn’t slope much. She’s sinking her toes into the sand, hoping around, throwing water up onto the grass on either side of the stream.
On one bank a small dog is running back and forth, agitated. He is not fond of water, but he is fond of the child. He wishes she would come out of the brook. She cups water in two hands and throws it at the dog. He runs, yapping, then returns, begging.
The red door opens. A man peers out. He squints against the sudden sun. He sees his daughter and her dog. He sees the rolling green, he sees the cow chewing.
He raises his eyes to the horizon, and spends some time idly studying the World Mountain, climbing as it always does to unimaginable heights, its peak beyond the reach of human eyes, its breadth like a wall on one side of his world.
Seeing nothing amiss, he smiles and goes back inside, returns to stirring the stew.