Chapter 1

I wonder. A lot. Thoughts and questions float about my mind like ash in a soft wind, each speck an impulse. I walk through the haze in my mind, watching as ideas bump into one another, bounce here and there. Like a breeze on a bright day, passing observations gently collide with curiosity, leaving falling phrases and hazy questions in their wake.

How long has it been like this?

Why is the sky gray?

What color is the sun?

My boots sink down, deep down, driving up sullen puffs of ash as I make my way forward. The trees around here do not have leaves. There are no eggs in the intricately woven nests that perch on barren branches, nests that look hollow, feel empty. Dry and broken limbs lie about; Mother Earth's outstretched fingers failing to reach anything whatsoever.

Crick. Crack. Crunch.

Buried bones turn to dust under my heavy step. The delicate echo of their destruction fades quickly -- their last cry muted by the very atmosphere itself. When I was a child, the dry, hollow snapping haunted me, made my skin crawl. Yet now it is as familiar as the zip-zipping of my coat in the morning. Oh how things have changed.

I stop, look back. A scratched and fractured skull peeks up at me from the shadow of its unbroken socket. It reaches out; fleshless fingers attached to a muscle-less arm trying to grasp my breath -- steal it. The falling ash swirls about as I sigh a heavy, heavy sigh.

I walk on.

On the edge of the horizon, the Ridge announces its existence, jutting out of the ashen ocean: a monument, an island. On the very tip there is a bench. Yes, a bench. I do not know who or what or why there is a bench on the top of this mountain, but there is and it's magical.

The trip to the throne is fraught with shadows and treacherous footing. It winds and roves, climbs and falls. But once you get there, once you sit upon the Crown of the World, every obstacle becomes worth it. From that stone bench, every corner of the wasteland can be seen. From this humble throne, the world's sad and solemn beauty can weigh on the shoulders. It can, and it will, beg the question "What happened?" And then it will fall back into silence.

Hushed thunder from a far-off storm rumbles over the barren lands below, stirring up large amounts of ash. Waves of ash roll over each other, crashing upon the rocks below before disappearing into the gray ocean. The sun begins to set.

Time to go home.