I don't really want to write a story.

Although I sense the boy's fear, as he watches his father walk away from him, and move towards the unknown.

But there's no story. Only the wind whispering it's tales. All the stories have already been told, and in this moment, there is only the fact of it. He's leaving. He's leaving. And the story becomes a song, and the song travels down the valley on the wind. And nobody can follow the wind.