The late-afternoon sun hung low over the western rim of the gorge, washing the terraced valley in a dense, amber radiance. A cool, mountain-fed draught began to descend from the pine forests above, sweeping away the heavy summer heat and rustling the dry leaves of the wild grapevines that clung to the southern stone retaining wall. The river below had turned a deep indigo, its steady, rhythmic murmur echoing softly against the granite revetments.
I stood beside the dry-storage annex near the pantry, holding a long wooden gauge rod and a steel marking knife. I was measuring the wall studs for a set of raised timber bins designed to store our autumn root crops—carrots, parsnips, and turnips—above the damp earth floor. Each stroke of my marking knife left a clean, precise score across the gr
