I’ve always been told to keep away from the mists. It calls you in, with barely-heard whispers and sweet little lights. But the big roots of the mangroves are like the bars of a cell, and the lily pads sink away beneath you, and the fog blinds your path back, and the way might never be found again. Or so they say.

It’s rare that anyone goes near it these days, but it creeps forwards a little more each year, reaching out to the world on the lilies. Driving the flock past it grows harder each time as it calls to them, encouraging them closer. They seem to hear the mists voice more and more, as our voices fall on deaf ears.