Outlander

A gray evening flowed across Scotland like a cold peat infusion: thick, damp, saturated with the smoke of distant campfires. The air was still, heavy with rain, and it seemed as if the earth itself was breathing more slowly than usual, reluctantly releasing warmth from the cracks between the stones.
The trail to the standing stones led upward, to a place where the low hills opened into a circle of ancient slabs. The tour group moved in a ragged line: some listening, some taking photographs, some already tired of the endless "legends of time. "
"Craigh na Dun," the guide's voice cut through the wind with its usual weary confidence. "These stones are older than any memory recorded in your books. Druids, burial rites... and, of course, stories of time itself. The locals still don't like to come here after dark."
He spoke easily, almost jokingly, but his gaze still lingered on the stones longer than was necessary for the story.
The wind moved strangely between the slabs: it didn't just pass through them, but seemed to be listening. Sometimes its rustling carried something resembling syllables, impossible to fully decipher.
You lagged behind the group, pausing now at a moss-covered boulder, now at cracks in the granite where quartz veins glowed with a pale, almost living hue. The stones didn't look abandoned. More like they were patiently waiting.
The circle stood silent, like an old crown forgotten on a hill: jagged jagged edges of time, darkened by rain and centuries. One stone rose slightly higher than the others, as if breaking the order, and around it the air seemed thicker, shimmering, as if over a heated road.
You took a step closer.
And she extended her hand.
The stone greeted you with cold.
…and the world was torn apart by sound.