I didn't plan to go back.
That's what I told myself the next morning.
I woke up earlier than usual, before my uncle, before the dogs, before even the light had properly settled over the valley. For a few seconds after opening my eyes, everything felt normal again. The kind of normal that makes you question whether the night before actually happened.
Then I remembered the sound.
That low, steady rumble. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just… present.
Breathing.
I sat up and listened.
Nothing.
Only silence.
For a moment, I almost convinced myself it had been something else. Wind moving through the hills. A distant vehicle echoing across the valley. Something explainable.
But then I noticed something small.
The air still felt warm.
Not enough to be uncomfortable. Just enough to feel wrong at that hour.
I stepped outside.
The sky was pale, not fully bright yet. The valley looked the same as always—dry grass, scattered trees, the long stretch of land fading into distance. But the northern ridge stood darker than the rest, like it was holding onto the night longer than it should have.
And then I saw it.
Smoke.
Not one line.
Three.
Thin, steady streams rising from different points along the cliffs.
I stood there longer than I meant to, counting them without realizing it.
One. Two. Three.
Then one of them faded.
Not quickly. Not like smoke disappearing. It thinned out, as if whatever was producing it had simply… stopped.
The other two remained.
That was the first moment I understood something clearly.
It wasn't just one.
Behind me, I heard the door open.
"You're up early," my uncle said.
I didn't turn immediately. "There are more of them," I said.
He didn't ask what I meant.
"I know," he replied.
That was it.
No surprise. No reaction.
Just confirmation.
I turned then. "How many?"
He shrugged slightly. "Enough."
That answer stayed with me longer than it should have.
Enough for what?
Enough to live there?
Enough to matter?
Or enough to be a problem if something changed?
We didn't talk about it again that morning. Work continued like always. The sheep needed to be moved, the fences checked, the routine followed. But everything felt slightly different now.
Not because the valley had changed.
Because I had.
Once you notice something like that, you can't go back to not seeing it.
I started paying attention to things I had ignored before.
The sheep stayed farther from the northern side without being guided. The dogs avoided looking toward the cliffs unless they had to. Even the birds didn't cross that part of the sky as often.
It wasn't obvious.
But it was there.
By midday, the heat settled in like usual. The kind of dry warmth that makes everything feel slower. My uncle stayed near the lower fields, repairing part of a fence that had come loose. I was supposed to keep an eye on the flock.
Instead, I kept looking at the ridge.
I told myself I wouldn't go back.
That lasted a few hours.
It happened when one of the sheep drifted too far again.
Not as far as the day before. Just enough to be near the slope that led upward.
I watched it for a while, expecting it to turn back on its own.
It didn't.
I looked toward my uncle.
He wasn't paying attention.
I started walking.
This time, I moved slower.
Not because I was unsure.
Because I was aware.
The moment I crossed that invisible boundary again, the change was immediate. The air felt heavier, like it pressed slightly against my skin. The ground showed the same dark patches as before, though some of them looked newer.
That's when I noticed something I hadn't seen the first time.
Marks.
They weren't footprints. Not in the way animals leave them. They were longer, curved slightly, spaced unevenly. As if something large had landed, shifted its weight, and then pushed off again.
I crouched down to look closer.
The soil inside the marks was darker than the surrounding ground.
And warmer.
I pulled my hand back immediately.
It wasn't burning.
But it wasn't normal either.
I stood there for a few seconds, trying to picture what had made them.
Landing.
Adjusting.
Taking off.
The thought came naturally this time.
Not like before, where I was trying to explain something strange.
Now I already knew.
I followed the marks for a short distance.
They led slightly upward, toward a narrower path between rocks that I hadn't noticed before.
I should have stopped there.
I didn't.
The path wasn't steep, but it was uneven. Small stones shifted under my feet as I climbed. The air grew warmer with each step, not dramatically, but enough to make it noticeable.
Halfway up, I stopped.
Not because I was tired.
Because something felt different.
Not the air.
Not the ground.
Awareness.
The same feeling as before.
Like I wasn't alone anymore.
I looked up slowly.
At first, I didn't see anything.
Just rock. Shadows. Stillness.
Then one of the shadows moved.
It wasn't a sudden motion. Just a slight adjustment, like something repositioning itself.
And then I saw it.
Another one.
This one was lower than the first I had seen the day before. Closer. Clearer.
Its body followed the shape of the rock so perfectly that it almost disappeared into it. Only the edges gave it away—the slight difference in texture, the way light didn't reflect the same.
Its head turned.
Slower than anything I had ever seen move.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
The eye opened.
And this time, I understood something new.
It wasn't just looking at me.
It had already known I was there.
The smoke came a second later.
Thin. Steady. Rising straight into the air.
I didn't move.
Not because I was frozen.
Because I knew running wouldn't matter.
We stayed like that again.
Seconds passing without anything changing.
Then something else happened.
A second movement.
Above it.
I looked up instinctively.
And saw another shape.
Higher on the cliff.
Bigger.
It shifted slightly, enough for its outline to become visible.
Two.
At the same time.
That was the moment something changed inside me.
Not fear.
Understanding.
This wasn't a rare encounter.
This was normal for them.
I took a step back.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Neither of them moved.
But the feeling didn't leave.
Watched.
Measured.
Allowed.
I stepped back again.
Then again.
Only when the path leveled out did I turn fully and walk away.
Not fast.
Not running.
Just leaving.
When I reached the lower field, the air returned to normal almost instantly. The weight lifted. The warmth faded.
Like crossing a boundary.
My uncle was still working when I got back.
He didn't look up immediately.
"You went up there," he said.
Not a question.
I didn't answer.
After a moment, he added, "You shouldn't go higher than that."
"Why?" I asked.
This time, he looked at me.
"For the same reason they don't come down here often," he said.
"That's the line."
That word stayed with me.
Line.
Not a fence.
Not a wall.
Just something understood.
That night, I didn't wait to hear the sound.
I expected it.
And it came.
Stronger than before.
Not louder.
Closer.
The same deep, steady rumble.
More than one.
Overlapping.
I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to it fill the valley.
And for the first time, a thought came that I couldn't ignore.
What happens if that line is cross?