The deepest fog enraptured the land, where there was no sun.
Not meaning that it wasn’t bright, just meaning that there was no concept of a sun, with clearly delineated borders, distinct in the sky. The only thing they could tell of it was that the fog’s color alternated between bright white and dark grey, thick mist.
They had numerous names for the fog, but usually they just called it fog. Visitors who made it out of the town remarked on the low, almost whispered language used by the people of the town.
It was a very intimate language, a language you would use with everyone if you were perpetually in the dark and could not see them. It had no barriers, no false cheer. Instead it was a whispered thing, a language almost of lovers.
The fog itself was not poisonous. A lot of stories circulated amongst the visitors about the nature of this fog. Was it poisonous? Was it some kind of omen or curse? In reality, it was very simple.
The fog was just that: fog. It was moisture. But through some quirk in topology and moisture, the fog hung perpetually over the town.
Because of the fog, it meant that they could easily overlook things. Responsibilities. Because they could not see more than 10 feet in front of them, and sometimes not even that, they lived in isolation, and things beyond that distance had no meaning. They were easily forgotten, relegated to memories and vaguely unpleasant, but distant.
All impressions were, if not forgotten, then lost in the same thick morasses of memory resembling the very thing that surrounded them. Nothing was vivid, everything was experienced in a blur.
Even when things were happening now, it was as if it was happening in the past, in the same just-darkness as everything else. There were no past or future tenses in the language, nor markers of time.
Some who lived in the town followed a routine. Every morning they walked for ten steps in a certain direction, guided only by their memories, until they came to a familiar signpost or patch of intuition, and they turned left or right, often closing their eyes until they came to their destination.
But these people were in the minority, and even among them, the routine lasted only several months or a year at most. Inevitably things would change. Inevitably they would make one wrong turn, or too many steps, miscarried by the clouds of their memories and the thick, thick fog. Other people and other objects would appear before the once-familiar paths, presenting a new signpost or distraction. The new person would start conversation, and as new memories became formed, the old ones were lost.
Most lived in a state of perpetually shifting priorities. It was too easy to stumble on a new house, a strange house, and take lodging there, maybe stay there a few more nights, and help tend the farm and raise the nameless, soundless breed of cattle that thrives only in the fog. It was too easy to walk away from one another during intense arguments, walk into a stranger’s bed, and never see either again.
Sometimes parents lost their children. And sometimes they took other children in. It was part of the code of the town. Hospitality, affability, and a spirit of renewal, exploration.
When they grew tired of one another, they walked into the fog, sometimes for days on end. There was no right or wrong in that fog. It was deep, it was thick, and it buried everything.
The gaze you saw in the people’s eyes was not the kind of gaze you saw in the eyes of people who lived by the sea, a faraway gaze. It was a more intense gaze, a deeper one that was perpetually trying to make out motion and shape and texture in that fog.
The fog absorbed sounds, and it clouded everything. There was no right or wrong. And everyone who visited, ended up staying forever.