It’s such a curious sight that he’s certain they’ve become famous for their “floating cloud”; a landmark that moves.

In the morning, after setting up their biggest tent, a cloud would descend and settle its imaginary weight on top, as if it were resting there. It’s always a white, curious sight, somehow always changing its shape without seeming to move. It gives weight to the air around, but otherwise, it’s a quiet presence, unnoticeable once you get used to it.

By night, it’s the only cloud that takes on the hues of fire, so in the gloom of darkness it appears like a mound of liquid fire that breathes slowly, gently.

Eventually, they learned to be unable to live without their curious cloud, so when it left they moved, and when it returned they stayed. He used to think that the cloud followed them wherever they went, but after the tenth move, he realised that it’s become something where no one can determine where the story begins or ends.

The cloud becomes their beacon, they become its footrest, and the places they meet become times when he feels whole again.

Blah blah blah

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