"The Unchanging Sky"

In the quiet town of Forthfeld, the weather never changed. The sun hovered just above the horizon, casting a soft golden hue over the land at all hours. There was no rising or setting, no storms, no clouds, just a constant, serene calm that blanketed the town. The temperature hovered in the perfect balance between warm and cool, and the air was always crisp but not cold. People did not speak much of the weather; it had been the same for as long as anyone could remember.

The town itself was nestled in a valley surrounded by hills that stood as silent guardians. It was a place where time seemed to slow, almost to a halt. The streets were cobblestone, the houses built of wood and stone, each one uniquely adorned with creeping ivy, bright flowers, and intricate carvings. The people of Forthfeld went about their days with a quiet grace, never in haste, never rushing toward the future.

One such person was Elsie Rowan, a librarian in the town’s modest library. Elsie had lived in Forthfeld for as long as she could remember, born under the steady sky, raised in a house with ivy-clad walls and a large oak tree in the front yard. She loved the constancy of the town—the gentle rhythm of life that never wavered. She never questioned it; she simply accepted it as the way of things. It was always as it had been, and perhaps it was enough that it was simply this way.

Each morning, Elsie walked to the library, passing the same small shops and familiar faces. Mrs. Thompson, who sold fresh bread, would wave her hand as she passed, her voice bright with the same greeting, “Good morning, Elsie! Lovely day, isn’t it?” Elsie would smile and nod in reply. Lovely, indeed.

The library was a haven for Elsie, a place where she could lose herself in the world of stories. The shelves were lined with books that had been there for decades, some even longer. The air always smelled of paper and dust, comforting and familiar. She would spend her days organizing the books, greeting the few visitors who wandered in to read, but mostly, she would lose herself in the written word, reading long into the evening as the sun never dipped below the horizon.

One afternoon, as Elsie was shelving a particularly old volume in the back corner of the library, she noticed something strange. A book, tucked in the corner of a shelf, was not like the others. It was newer—its cover crisp, its pages unmarked. She pulled it from the shelf, running her fingers over the smooth leather binding. There was no title, no author’s name, just an intricate pattern of swirling lines embossed on the cover. She opened it, flipping through the first few pages, only to find them blank. She frowned, turning more pages. Still nothing.

And then, in the center of the book, a single word appeared, written in a fine, elegant script: Why?

Elsie blinked, surprised. She turned the page again, and the word remained. She stared at it, wondering if it was some sort of joke, but as she ran her fingers over the paper, she could feel the faintest impression of ink, as though it had only just been written.

Why?

She sat down in a nearby chair, the book resting in her lap, her mind racing. What did it mean? Who had written it? And why had it appeared now, after all these years of peaceful, unchanging days?

As the day wore on, Elsie couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not right. The town, the sky, the endless serenity—they had all been so… perfect. But now, she wondered, could there be more to it? Had it always been this way, or had she simply never asked why?

That night, she couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts a whirl of questions. The word in the book kept echoing in her mind. Why?

She knew that the answer could not come from the town itself. Forthfeld had no stories of change, no myths of the past to explain the strange constancy of the weather. No one spoke of a time when the sun set or when storms raged. It was simply the way things were, and no one questioned it.

The next morning, Elsie made a decision. She would leave Forthfeld. She didn’t know why, but the word from the book had unsettled her deeply, and she felt an undeniable urge to find the answer to her own question.

She walked down the cobblestone streets, passing the familiar sights—the bakery, the market, the town square—but this time, they all felt somehow different, as though she were seeing them for the first time. Her footsteps echoed in the silence as she made her way to the edge of the town, to the foot of the hills that surrounded it.

The hills, for all their majesty, were never spoken of. They were simply there, a part of the landscape. But now, as Elsie stood before them, she felt an overwhelming desire to climb them, to see what lay beyond the familiar valley.

She began her ascent, the rocky path winding upwards, and with each step, the silence around her grew deeper, more profound. The sky remained unchanged, the air still as it always had been. But the higher she climbed, the more it felt as though something was waiting for her, just beyond her reach.

Finally, after hours of walking, Elsie reached the summit. She stood there, breathless, gazing out over the valley below. The town of Forthfeld was small now, a mere dot in the landscape. The hills stretched out in all directions, but there was nothing beyond them—no other towns, no other lands, just an endless expanse of quiet.

And then, as she stood there, she understood.

Forthfeld was not just a town where the weather never changed. It was a place frozen in time, untouched by the world beyond it. The constancy, the stillness—it was a prison, a place where nothing could grow, nothing could change. The word in the book had been a reminder, a signal that something was wrong. Forthfeld had always been like this, but it was not meant to be.

Elsie closed her eyes and made a choice. She would leave Forthfeld, and though the weather would never change, she would. She would carry the question with her forever—Why?—but now, she would live beyond its answer.