At dawn, the outline of a village materialized amid the hazy fog.
Scores of simply dressed villagers gathered in front of an ancient treehouse, some whispering secretly, others solemnly waiting.
A quarter of an hour later, as the fog surrounding the village thickened, an elderly man with a white beard, using a wooden cane, approached the tightly shut doors of the treehouse with some anxiety and knocked:
"The time has come."
The door opened in response, a young girl wearing a blue floral crown and dressed ornately, led out by two peasant women like a bride prepared for her wedding.
At the end of the road, a middle-aged man with a beard, having waited for a long time, stepped forward and embraced his daughter, bowing his head to gently kiss her cheek.
Only when the villagers around them urged did he reluctantly let go of his arms, gazing at his daughter, who was made up beautifully today, and couldn't help but tear up:
"Forgive me, child, your dad had no choice."
