There is supposed to be a mountain here.

I know there is supposed to be a mountain here. I am not lost, I am not confused. I am standing here, staring at a flat expanse of horizon that every relevant memory tells me should be filled by a mountain.

There is not a mountain here.

Cities razed, I can understand. Humans built them, and eventually humans destroyed them. And the wind and water eventually reshape the land, but it takes time. It does not level mountains, at least not this quickly.

The discrepancy is jarring, to say the least. The sheer wrongness of this utter devastation clamors at me from my memories, and a part of me wants nothing more than to turn and leave. To flee this hole torn in the world. But I am the Chronicler. This is why I exist, to remember what humanity was and to see what they left behind. Because it must be seen, and there is no one else left.

The empty sky is like a wound. I walk towards it, cautious of dangers. Erasing a mountain is not easy, and some weapons have survived, even after all these years. Some leave behind dangers that will outlast even me.

I’ve grown complacent. In the beauty of the spring, I’ve already begun to forget the winter. The soft spring rains wash away the ash, the blood, the poison, and I start to pretend like such things never existed at all. Like the world is a pristine wonderland and not a mass grave.

The memories scream at me about the wrongness of this place, the sheer irrationality of a missing mountain. Of the things that should be but are gone. Of the world that does not fit into their mold anymore. Trying to shove a square peg into a round hole, pushing as though that will make it fit. A key that no longer fits into a lock, and a door that won’t open for you anymore. The delicate glass shoe doesn’t fit the foot, so the step-mother cuts off her heel, but the trail of blood gives her away…

I force away the memories, suppress their turmoil. It’s hard for the ghosts, to realize how much they’ve lost. It’s one of the many reasons I prefer to avoid the cities. But I am more than just the ghosts I carry; I am the Chronicler. And this is something I need to chronicle. This is why I’m here.

The ghosts won’t be silenced this time, so as I push through brush towards the mountain that isn’t there, I distract them. Why would this mountain be destroyed? It was important, one answers. There were things hidden in its heart. They watched from there, and commanded. Other voices whisper more technical answers. But I care less about what the mountain was, and more about what happened to it. How was it destroyed? How can maps be rewritten in such a way?

The voices scream, then. Too many answers, so many terrified. I’m overwhelmed again, and it is a long time before I can continue forward, mind filled with answers I wish I didn’t have.