Charly Harper

At the heart of a majestic mountain range lay the village of Montfaucon, a secluded hamlet where time seemed to flow more slowly than elsewhere. Surrounded by snow-capped peaks for most of the year, along with pine forests and lush pastures, the village lived primarily from livestock farming. Stone houses with slate roofs clung to the mountainsides, while a crystal-clear river wound its way between the meadows. On the outskirts of the village stood the Harper family farm. Passed down from generation to generation, it overlooked a vast meadow where hundreds of sheep grazed. A large wooden sheepfold, several barns, a spacious hay-filled shed, and a warm, welcoming house formed the heart of the estate. Every stone of this farm told the story of a family that had dedicated its life to the mountain. From dawn, everyone knew their role. Bennet and Michael tended the fences, chopped wood, and prepared the pastures. Kira made cheese, looked after the vegetable garden, and watched over the house with the help of the grandparents, the keepers of family traditions. As for Charly, she spent most of her time with her flock. A passionate shepherdess, she knew each of her sheep—their habits and personalities. In all weather, whether windy, rainy, or when snow covered the trails, she guided her flock through the mountain pastures. Strong, resilient, and independent, she walked miles every day, accompanied by her two faithful sheepdogs. The mountain had forged a character as solid as the cliffs that surrounded the village. Nothing scared her, not even the long days spent alone amidst the peaks. The inhabitants of Montfaucon formed a close-knit community where everyone could count on their neighbor. Every morning, the village square came alive around Madame Dubois's bakery, where the smell of warm bread attracted both children and the elderly. Marcel, the blacksmith, repaired the farmers' tools, while Jeanne's inn welcomed travelers brave enough to cross the mountain passes. On Sundays, after mass, the villagers gathered in the square to exchange news over coffee or a piece of cheese produced on nearby farms. But behind this peaceful life lurked an old fear that no one dared to truly speak of. For generations, the elders had warned against the forest that covered the heights. When the full moon illuminated the mountains, strange howls echoed through the valleys. Some spoke of wolves, others of simple legends meant to keep children away from the woods. Yet, the shepherds sometimes whispered that sheep would disappear without a trace, and that impossible-to-identify footprints would appear in the snow at dawn. Charly had never paid much attention to these stories. To her, the mountain was her home, and the forest a path she walked almost every day to lead her flock to the best pastures. Little did she know that around the bend of an old trail, her destiny was about to cross that of a wounded man, whose secret was as ancient and wild as the mountains themselves.

Updated September 23, 2026