
You run for so long that you lose track of time, farmland skimming by beneath your feet.
Ahead of you rolling hills unfold, each trek to the top producing a dip of equal measure, so that you feel as though you are a boat, flung about by the open sea.
You think of the sea back home, the tang of salt in the air, the rush of waves sizzling up the sand to meet you—
But you are not at home, and there is no sea. Just you, and the hills, undulating endlessly onward.
All at once the sun, until now lighting the tall grass up from behind you, plummets from the sky in what can only be considered a concerning fashion.
Night doesn’t so much as settle as it drops, heavy and wet, over the surrounding landscape.
You have not heard the owl’s calls in some time, and so you slow your pace, momentum leaving you as you make your way up one last hill.
Darkness pools around you, thick and heavy, and you think that you may curl up just there, at the top of the hill, and let the darkness swallow you.
Except as you crest the hill, lights blink from the next valley, corals and ambers and glassy sapphires so reminiscent of the sea that you think of it again, how your mother used to take you there early in the mornings, how—
In the valley, the house’s door opens a crack, and a high, bright voice calls to you through the dark.

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