All summer long, while the sun blazed over the small village and children ran barefoot through dusty streets, an elderly woman climbed onto the roof of her modest house every morning with a small hammer, a bundle of sharpened wooden stakes, and quiet determination. She moved slowly, carefully, her joints stiff with age, yet her movements were steady and precise. Neighbors would pause in their routines to watch her from behind curtains or across garden fences, puzzled by the strange sight. Day after day, she hammered the pointed stakes into the shingles, lining them in careful rows, spacing them evenly, as if following an invisible blueprint only she could see. By late summer, her roof no longer looked like a roof at all.

It resembled something out of a medieval fortress, bristling with sharp spines that glinted faintly in the sunlight. People whispered that grief had finally overtaken her. Since her husband’s death the year before, she had withdrawn into herself, rarely attending community gatherings or chatting in front of the bakery. Now, this unsettling construction seemed like proof that loneliness had turned into madness. Some felt uneasy passing her house. Others felt pity. A few felt fear. Yet none truly understood what they were witnessing.