A Place Just Shy of Paradise There was a place I played as a child — a hill nestled in a sea of a thousand others. It felt like the closest thing to freedom. But even then, something was… off. Not loudly. Just a single degree of tilt — subtle enough to miss, but enough to make the world feel askew. Most nights, the nearby dam would breathe out mists that pooled in the valley below. Fog clung to the air, cloaking everything in stillness — until the wind stirred, and the sun finally burned it away. It was like a slow, secret ritual — the land veiled in shifting white, holy and eerie all at once.