There was something wrong with the way things looked, she thought, that day in the valley when the sky was silver. The sky should be blue, you know. You should always be able to find blue in the sky.

Was the sun setting early? she wondered. It was awfully dark, even for November. Dark, dark, far too dark.

Winter was coming, she supposed—that was why it was so terribly, horribly dark. It sapped all of the light and the color from everything; the silver in the sky was just the beginning. The green was gone from the grass, and the trees, and the flowers were wilted and everything was dead.

Everything but the red on her hands, that is. That looked so lively and vivid against the silver and the death and the chill of autumn.

It was awfully dark for November, she thought. And there was definitely something wrong with the way things looked.