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I like the fog.
At first, I didn’t understand the appeal. The miniscule water droplets scatter light, obscuring a human’s primary sense. Grace said that’s the point.
The droplets also attenuate sound waves. I can barely discern the clifftop house above us, where Armando sits idle. Grace is only an arm’s length away, but even he is muffled, the sharp angles of his still-too-thin frame softened as he buries his toes in the sand.
The door to the airlock, to all of Erid, may as well not exist.
Once again, the entire world consists of the unlikely home we share.