The air was thick with the chill of early morning mist, and the gray clouds seemed to mourn alongside us, hanging low and heavy in the sky. The procession halted, confusion rippling through the crowd like a stone cast into still water. I turned, my heart leaping into my throat. What could have driven Astoria to act so wildly?
Astoria had always been a calm, gentle creature, whose presence was more akin to a comforting shadow than a force of chaos. My late husband, Tom, had often said that she had a sixth sense, a knowing beyond human comprehension. It was as if she was drawn to him, her loyalty unmatched and her patience endless.
Now, she was a tempest in full fury, her hooves striking the ground with a rhythm that echoed through the silent, narrow streets. Her mane flew back like a banner, and her eyes glistened with something that looked almost like defiance. As she reached the coffin, the crowd parted as if commanded by an unseen hand. There was no restraining her; she was a force of nature, unstoppable and resolute.
