It looked like a ghost army marching down from the mountain, a cloud so thick you could almost touch it. The mist would drown the town in a murky silence, our whispers faceless bouncing off hidden walls, waiting for the song of that distant rain. Then, it would leave as quickly as it had come, rising swiftly and vanishing in the horizon, taking with it the sound of the weary footsteps of the unseen traveller who came in the darkness. The light would return, and the world would remain unchanged, save for the hearts of men. You see, for centuries we have watched these passing clouds, longing for the freedom of the endless sky. For when the mist would come we could enter the clouds, but dream as we might, we could never ride them. And so the clouds would go on wandering freely over mountains and valleys, past rivers and oceans, ever ignoring the borders of men, always heading east, always coming, always going...