A woman sits in a warm and quiet room knitting.

Her face, serene and furrowed slightly with focus on her craft,

is framed by long white hair that reflects the soft glow of some unseen light source.

The clicking of her needles goes unbroken for minutes,

hours, eras, until their eyes open suddenly with alarm.

She looks, she looks at her piece with dismay,

dropped stitches, holes, flaws in her great work is to size and looks over at

the bearded vulture perched beside her.

The past is...

It isn't pristine.

It's not an immutable record of our triumphs or our failures.

It's just as in flux as the future. Just as vulnerable, if not more so, because the shape of it is already known.

The bird slowly blinks its eyes and drops its beak in a knowing nod.

And the Lady of Fate, satisfied with her few cryptic words, resumes her knitting.

Queen Warrior, as ever, watches and waits. And we move from that hidden place into the world, into the future, where our camera alights on.

Merle High Church.

It's been about 10 years since the day of story and song.

Where are you? since the day of story and song.

Where are you?

On a unclouded, like very neutral, morning in the midsummer.

In a cabana, on a beach.

I should hope so.

...