THE CROSSING

The flying machine was broken. So she walked

She hadn’t noticed the dark creeping in from the mountains. The sun had set long ago, leaving her to navigate by the scattered stars still clinging to the sky.

As a child, she loved the night—lying on the cool grass, unable to tell fireflies from stars. She stopped now, closed her eyes, and tried to inhale the scent of those nights. But they were a lifetime ago. The memories had faded.

She was on a different quest now.

Darkness was no longer wonder—it was strategy. The only safe time to travel. The sun would rise in a few hours, and she’d need to find shelter before it did.

She paused to shake the sand from her boots. Every descent down the dunes kicked up clouds of it, grit that wormed its way into everything. Her flying machine—broken and sulking beside her—was useless on flat desert and dangerous on slopes. She prayed the next stop had the part she needed to fix it.

Night once offered the quiet she craved. Now it gave too much of it. And too much of a good thing can still kill you.