The fog came from the river, as it does. Slow, deliberate, pulled by something unseen. From this height, I could watch it stretch across the valley—spilling over fields, softening edges, claiming what it could. But just as it reached the rise, it faltered.
It gathered there, below the ridge, hovering like it wasn’t sure if it belonged. The tree stood in defiance, twisted and weathered, while the fog waited, holding still as if asking permission to go further. Then the light came. Not harsh, not sudden—just enough warmth to make the mist second-guess itself.
Bit by bit, it gave in. The sun touched the earth, and the fog retreated, pulling back to the river that had sent it. I stood there, wondering if it meant to stay, or if its purpose was only ever to try. Like a life that reaches but doesn’t quite arrive.
The river in the distance still moved, indifferent, steady. It had seen this before—intentions that never quite filled their shape. And as the valley cleared, I felt the weight of something unfinished, beautiful only because it didn’t last.
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