Dear Mama —
We have reached the end of the world.
The sky here is filled with more stars than I could count in a lifetime. The desert sand is dark as ink and the sea crashes with waves that scrape the sky.
We have seen the reddest lakes, their bubbling waters tinged with salt and bone. We have walked endlessly through the desert, surrounded by dunes built of sand made of stars. Stones of fire littered the paths beneath our feet, glinting like tiny pieces of the sun.
We have traveled on caravans led by soldiers, and by merchants, and by the four of us in dying lantern light. We saw rolling fields of fragrant spices and the deepest canyons where every sound echoed like thunder. We saw trees twisted into homes for skeletal birds, and clear rivers awash with rainbow fish.
We have passed through the enchanted lands. We saw curved towers reaching for the clouds. The strangest creatures and creations living in harmony with the strangest sorcerers. Their kingdom shines bright blue and silver, and their sand reflects the sky. Magic spills and flows through the wind and rain here. I could fill a thousand letters with stories of the wonders we have seen, but there is not enough ink or time or paper. I will tell you when I come home, Mama. I will tell you everything I have seen.
So much of our world lies beyond the desert and mountains. Secrets kept for centuries lie hidden just beyond our borders. The gates to this country have just opened. My friends and I were the first to enter. My thoughts may never leave.
I will be forever grateful to this journey for bringing me south and filling my dreams with clams covered in painted runes. This place sings with magic, Mama. Even the constellations seem to glimmer more brightly here in the South, and the air is heavier and wetter than anywhere in our mountains.
And yet, the ocean winds that rip through our clothes make me think only of the cold air of our mountains. I can think only of sailing through the black ocean and up wide, gray rivers to make my way back to our mountains. The glimmering constellations make me think only of how clearly the rings of our world shine from the peaks of our mountains. Mama, I have seen the most beautiful things, the most magical and magnificent pieces of this world, and can still think only of coming home to you.
I have been thinking only of home. I have been dreaming only of home. While my body and mind wander far — from desert to jungle to deep, black ocean — my heart has stayed rooted at home. Home is freezing lakes and fresh fish and the way you say my name, Mama, like you have since I was small. The taste of the air when it is too cold to snow. The sounds of the raging waterfall during the first thaw of spring. The scent of the food I miss so much, that I haven’t had in years, that tastes nothing like the spices from fields I have traveled through.
Our mountains are calling my name again. They say my name like you do.
I am coming home, Mama,
Your son
We have reached the end of the world.
The sky here is filled with more stars than I could count in a lifetime. The desert sand is dark as ink and the sea crashes with waves that scrape the sky.
We have seen the reddest lakes, their bubbling waters tinged with salt and bone. We have walked endlessly through the desert, surrounded by dunes built of sand made of stars. Stones of fire littered the paths beneath our feet, glinting like tiny pieces of the sun.
We have traveled on caravans led by soldiers, and by merchants, and by the four of us in dying lantern light. We saw rolling fields of fragrant spices and the deepest canyons where every sound echoed like thunder. We saw trees twisted into homes for skeletal birds, and clear rivers awash with rainbow fish.
We have passed through the enchanted lands. We saw curved towers reaching for the clouds. The strangest creatures and creations living in harmony with the strangest sorcerers. Their kingdom shines bright blue and silver, and their sand reflects the sky. Magic spills and flows through the wind and rain here. I could fill a thousand letters with stories of the wonders we have seen, but there is not enough ink or time or paper. I will tell you when I come home, Mama. I will tell you everything I have seen.
So much of our world lies beyond the desert and mountains. Secrets kept for centuries lie hidden just beyond our borders. The gates to this country have just opened. My friends and I were the first to enter. My thoughts may never leave.
I will be forever grateful to this journey for bringing me south and filling my dreams with clams covered in painted runes. This place sings with magic, Mama. Even the constellations seem to glimmer more brightly here in the South, and the air is heavier and wetter than anywhere in our mountains.
And yet, the ocean winds that rip through our clothes make me think only of the cold air of our mountains. I can think only of sailing through the black ocean and up wide, gray rivers to make my way back to our mountains. The glimmering constellations make me think only of how clearly the rings of our world shine from the peaks of our mountains. Mama, I have seen the most beautiful things, the most magical and magnificent pieces of this world, and can still think only of coming home to you.
I have been thinking only of home. I have been dreaming only of home. While my body and mind wander far — from desert to jungle to deep, black ocean — my heart has stayed rooted at home. Home is freezing lakes and fresh fish and the way you say my name, Mama, like you have since I was small. The taste of the air when it is too cold to snow. The sounds of the raging waterfall during the first thaw of spring. The scent of the food I miss so much, that I haven’t had in years, that tastes nothing like the spices from fields I have traveled through.
Our mountains are calling my name again. They say my name like you do.
I am coming home, Mama,
Your son