Albus set out again.
Rowing with his broken oar, searching for the quiet, stubborn black cat in his memory.
The storm swept across the Borderland. Mist gathered and scattered, scattered and gathered again.
Albus searched for the source of the storm. He knew that child was there.
Staying for the prayers of all living beings.
And reality was exactly as he imagined.
In a distant region,
the mist surged like ink spilled into clear water, swallowing the last trace of daylight.
The wind pressed in from the northwest, bending the tree trunks on the distant mountains, turning the leaves over in panic to reveal their silvery undersides.
A strange scent filled the air, damp and heavy.
Lightning tore the sky in half. Thunder followed close behind. Rain slanted down, every drop like a pebble, lashing against the gathered mist.
"Stop, little Green!"
Gryffindor was like a hero challenging the gods, climbing step by step toward the peak of a distant mountain.
At the mountaintop, a giant so vast its neck could no longer be seen held lightning in its hand, striking down again and again upon the Faded Mist.
Even eternal mist could not immediately gather back together.
So it grew even angrier.
Cold lightning flashed through the black cat's emerald vertical pupils. The Titan-like giant obeyed its will and ravaged the Borderland.
"Ravenclaw, you really taught it nothing—"
Gryffindor was rarely this irritated.
Around him, red mist was gathering from far away.
Farther still, the black cat sat upright on the Storm Warden's shoulder.
It had already forgotten what it was supposed to do, and forgotten where this place was.
Only one particular voice told it that it could not stop. If it stopped, something would be lost.
And so it grew angry too, for the first time in a long while. The Storm Warden roared, its voice becoming violent wind, its arms swinging out thunder.
"This can't go on—"
At some point, Gryffindor had already stood in the center of the mist.
Around him gathered red mist, floating not far above his head like a crown.
There were also deeper white wisps drifting over from a twilight lawn, from the white expanse of the Borderland.
"Then, as its teacher, I'll take responsibility for beating it awake."
Gryffindor spread his arms wildly, and the Mist of Integrity and Judgment suddenly unfolded.
His body sank slightly, and he charged into the heart of the storm as though cutting through thorns.
The red mist wrapped around him, breaking through the obstruction of the storm, unstoppable.
But the battle ended in a way he had not expected.
When the hero split the lightning and climbed to the mountain peak, what he met was a sleeping god.
It lay exhausted and quiet on the Storm Warden's shoulder, wrapped gently in white mist.
Its ears drooped, and its tail swayed faintly.
Gryffindor froze.
"Oh, it's the Mist of Mercy and Forgiveness—"
He scratched his head.
"It forgave its own source."
When the storm died down, strangely, the view outside the window was no longer that surging white void.
It was a dusk about to vanish.
The sky was a gradient palette. Near the horizon, it was a rich, ripe tangerine, rising into rose-gold, then pale violet, and finally blending at the highest point with a lingering strand of blue night.
The skyline was no longer a blur of mist, but a clear silhouette of rooftops rising and falling.
An unknown little town seemed to have grown out of the void all on its own.
Ravenclaw and Gryffindor walked through the town.
"So this is its little town?"
Gryffindor looked around without the slightest politeness.
"Oh, why doesn't mine have this many people?"
"Heh."
Ravenclaw gave a mocking laugh.
The curve of her lips vanished so quickly it was as if what Gryffindor had just seen had been an illusion.
"Rowena, just now, were you laughing at me?"
Gryffindor asked uncertainly.
"You saw wrong."
Ravenclaw said lightly.
"You were clearly laughing."
Gryffindor grew annoyed.
"Oh."
Ravenclaw said.
"I merely thought of something amusing."
"What?"
Gryffindor asked.
"A town full of judges, ultimately judged by the Mist of Judgment for its injustice."
Ravenclaw smiled faintly.
"Ha! Caught you! You were laughing!"
Gryffindor looked completely unconcerned as he leaned in front of Ravenclaw and stared straight into her beautiful eyes.
"Why is your face a little red?"
Gryffindor suddenly deflated like a punctured ball and asked cautiously.
A row of white-walled, red-tiled houses was struck by a black shadow. Gryffindor climbed up covered in dust and dirt, still unable to understand why Ravenclaw was angry.
Then he saw that the town walls really were white.
It was the kind of white warmed by afternoon sunlight, with a faint beige tint in some places.
The red roof tiles had been washed by time into a gentle ocher-red, with dark seams between them.
On the windowsills of some houses sat wooden flower boxes. Geraniums and petunias peeked out from them, nodding gently in the evening breeze.
Every window was lit.
There were few cold white lights. Most were warm orange-yellow, flickering—candlelight, or the glow of hearth fires. They leaked through the gaps in lace curtains and cast broken patches of light onto the stone-paved road.
Behind a window somewhere far away, a faint figure could be seen lowering their head to do something. Perhaps knitting a sweater, perhaps turning the pages of a book.
The wind was soft and warm, carrying the scent of unknown flowers—perhaps the honeyed fragrance of petals, perhaps the sweetness of fruit trees farther away at dusk.
Most distinct of all was the sound of bells.
It came from the spire of a small church.
That spire rose high into the sunset, made entirely of gray stone. At its peak stood a cross, gilded by the last ray of sunlight.
The bell tolls were long and slow. Each one was like a stone dropped into water, sending circles of ripples through the air.
This was not the urgent tolling of time, nor a solemn announcement, but something gentle, accepting, and unending, like a heartbeat from deep within the earth.
One chime, then another. Before the echo of each had fully faded, the next continued after it, and the whole town was immersed in this beginningless and endless resonance.
Ariana pushed open the window.
The frame was wooden, and it gave a creak when pushed. The paint had peeled a little, revealing the pale wood underneath.
The dusk wind carried everything inside: flower fragrance, bells, the rustle of distant leaves, and the lingering warmth of the stone road after a full day beneath the sun.
She leaned on the windowsill. The stone had been warmed by her body, and its rough, grainy texture reached her skin through the sleeve of her cotton dress.
"So beautiful… is this Mr. God's blessed land…?"
she murmured softly. Her voice drifted into the bells and was carried far away by the lingering echoes.
When she turned back, her smile was bright enough to make any broken heart whole again.
Her god was on her shoulder, asleep like an utterly exhausted child.