Javier Gil-Casares

A tale of mist and glass

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Before the mist settled in, before we learned to be silent, there was a stream, a fresh wound that connected dawn and dusk, covering with water the depths of the hills. It carried sounds and whispers from birds and trees alike, bringing life into the Valley from the Queen Mountain. Back then, the passages were not made of sharp glass and sheep were free to roam around the pastures. The bones of our livestock remained in their flesh, and there was nothing to fear, for the seasons kept us calm and the river gave us everything.