Around the humble village of Bron, leaves Old Sylve, adorned with a bronze appearance. The old aunt Célian, Ysaëlle had pulled his time to spin wool, to his nephew principal supply of wood from the forester who kept his house behind the village, at the edge of the Old Sylve, for cold days come.
Throughout the village, we hastened to crops, boldest enjoying the last sunny days to return any game or berries, granted by the Old Forest.
The simple life was back to normal in these woodlands, with autumn night sky studded with stars. The afternoon and late into the evening, young and old gathered around outbreaks where under the ashes, chestnuts explode like the gossip of the villagers, between the flue pipe and the sweet aroma of teapots, lamps and candles illuminating the shadows of their golden glow, imbuing them with a serene slumber ...
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