Chapter 3: The Cliffs at Dawn
The path narrowed as we climbed higher, and the world fell away beneath us. Behind, the village dissolved into morning mist. Ahead, nothing but sky—vast, indifferent, impossibly blue. The guide had warned us about the wind, but nothing could have prepared us for the way it moved through the landscape, carrying salt and stories from the sea below.
"Look back," she whispered, but I couldn't. I was afraid the moment would shatter if I turned around, that the beauty of it—the two of us, alone on the edge of the world—would prove too fragile to survive a second glance. This is what travel teaches you: not to fear the future, but to hold the present so tightly your hands hurt.
We stood there until the mist cleared, until the sun caught the cliff face and turned it gold. The land below came into focus—green fields stitched with stone walls, a ribbon of road winding toward the horizon. And suddenly it felt like we could see everything: where we'd been, where we were going, all of it at once in a single, perfect moment.