I reached the top of the hill and across the plains, over the forest, I could see the city. Home. Gentle pillars or smoke were floating out from the neighborhoods and I could feel the warmth from those distant hearths. I figured the sunlight would last me until my arrival, and I would finally have a night off the ground.
I had been on the road for months. I no longer recall what I set out looking for. With such a tight focus, I lost sight of what I was looking at. The next thing I knew, I was on my way home.
I started down the hill and a feeling of dread began to sink in. It was summer, it was warm, those pillars of smoke were not from fireplaces.
As I descended down the hill, into the forest, I lost sight of the city. I got through the woods, and in the last few rays of sunlight, I could see smoldering piles of rubble where the city had once stood.
This story is part of a series of travel stories set in Imaginary Landscapes.