After that day, things didn't go back to normal. Not for me, at least. My uncle carried on the same way he always did—waking early, checking fences, counting sheep like nothing in the valley had changed. But once you've seen something like that, the place stops feeling ordinary.
I started noticing patterns.
The smoke didn't rise randomly. It came in intervals, usually just before sunset and sometimes again before dawn. Always from roughly the same stretch of cliffs, but not a single fixed point. It shifted slightly, like whatever caused it moved along the rock face.
A few days later, I asked my uncle directly, "How long has it been there?"
He took his time answering. "Long enough that your grandfather knew about it," he said. "And his father too."
That didn't sound like a joke. It sounded like something already settled.
I stopped going near the northern ridge, but that didn't mean I stopped thinking about it. At night, the valley carries sound differently. With no traffic or machines, even small noises travel far. And sometimes, when everything else was quiet, I heard it again—that low, steady rumble. Not constant, not loud, but deep enough that you felt it in your chest more than your ears.
One evening, just after sunset, the sheep grew restless for no clear reason. They stayed close together, shifting and making short, uneasy sounds. Even the dogs wouldn't move far from the house. The air felt heavier than usual, like before a storm, except the sky was completely clear.
Then the smoke appeared again—more than before.
Not one or two thin lines, but several, rising at once from different points along the cliffs. I counted at least four before losing track.
That's when it became obvious.
It wasn't just one.
The next morning, my uncle and I walked the lower fields. Neither of us mentioned the night before, but he kept looking toward the ridge more often than usual. Near the edge of the grazing land, we found fresh marks on the ground. Not footprints exactly—more like long, dragged impressions, as if something heavy had shifted its weight before lifting off.
The soil there was darkened, still slightly warm.
I crouched to touch it, then pulled my hand back. "They come down here?" I asked.
"Sometimes," he said. "Not often. Only when something changes."
He didn't explain what that meant, and I didn't push.
That afternoon, I climbed halfway up a smaller hill on the opposite side of the valley, far enough to see the cliffs clearly but not close enough to break the unspoken rule. I stayed there longer than I should have, just watching.
For a long time, nothing happened.
Then, without warning, one of the shapes separated from the rock.
It unfolded slowly, like a structure coming to life. Wings extended—larger than I had imagined—catching the air with a single, controlled movement. There was no panic, no noise of struggle. Just weight, power, and precision.
It didn't fly high. It moved across the cliff face, then disappeared behind another ridge, leaving only a fading line of smoke behind.
I went back before dark.
That night, I didn't sleep at all. Not because I was scared in the usual way, but because something about it felt… established. Like I had stepped into something that had been happening quietly for years, unnoticed by anyone who wasn't looking in the right place.
I'm starting to think the valley isn't as isolated as it seems.
And whatever lives in those cliffs isn't just passing through.