The Clouds | A Walk In

A year after her passing, Elias found himself standing at that same edge. The fog was particularly dense that morning, a restless sea of pearl pressing against the cliffs. For the first time in his life, Elias didn't see a wall. He saw a path. He stepped off.

Elias blinked. He was standing on the edge of the cliff in Oakhaven. The sun had fully risen, dissolving the Veil into nothing but morning dew. His boots were damp, and his lungs felt clearer than they had in years. A Walk In The Clouds

"You’re late," she said, her voice sounding like wind through chimes. A year after her passing, Elias found himself

His boot didn't find the abyss. Instead, it met a surface that felt like packed wool and cold silk. It gave slightly under his weight, then held. He took another step, then another, walking straight out into the white nothingness. He saw a path

Elias was a man of the earth—a stonemason whose hands were mapped with the scars of granite and flint. He believed in things that had weight. But his daughter, Clara, was different. Before the fever took her, she used to sit on the edge of the precipice, swinging her legs over a drop of four thousand feet, and whisper, "The clouds aren’t just steam, Papa. They’re memories that forgot who they belonged to."