It was a gust of wind
We don't know where it came from. Only when the wind brushed across our faces did we realize, oh, there is wind—where does it come from?
There is a group of people
Oh, what are they doing? Why do their eyes show a mix of confusion and hope at the same time?
The wind brushes along the windowsill, flipping book pages. It passes by them, gathering fragments of words, then carrying those fragments toward the next group, or the next person.
This… how is it possible?
They are secretly amazed. How can there be wind inside a nearly sealed room? Yet it did appear, and before they noticed, tiny whirlwinds had gathered into a beam.
What is this for?
Why do they raise their hands to block it? The wind continues forward, dodging with incomprehension, moving onward with persistence.
The wind eventually leaves.
Outside the window, waiting for it are other wisps of wind.
Where do you come from, and where are we heading?
Ahead—there is light there
It Was a Gust of Wind
It Was a Gust of Wind