Wolf Cried Who Boy The
An old woman in a faded black dress sat alone at a table adorned with neither food nor drink. One could almost feel the palpable air of solitude draped around her, as if loneliness itself had been spun into midnight-black silk and then woven into the fabric of her drab dress, a costume fit only for the depressed and the dead. She sat in the corner of the inn without making a sound, staring into the vacant space in front of her, trembling hands gently playing with the colourful stained beads around her neck as if they were a rosary and she – like a pious housewife mourning a tragic loss – were mouthing silent prayers. She raised a wizened finger and with the gentlest of gestures, summoned a fiery pattern of light in the air in front of her face.
The other patrons ke
