Dark days have always brought about interesting mornings. This one was no different. Well it started no differently, but quickly became something bordering mystical. Our speck on the map had always been known in the county as the Foggy Dale; usually because we have fog about two hundred and seventy days out of the year. However, that day was… well, it’s hard to describe. The night before was one of the darkest nights we’ve had on record. No moon, a few stars, and the street lights were without power all night. When the morning came the fog had settled down and blanketed the valley. It was thick, not uncommon, but unusual for the season.
What made this fog different? It held a taste like honey and vanilla. As soon as we noticed it, we all heard what sounded like a resounding choir, but soft and delicate. It came from seemingly every direction and echoed in such a way that it was perfectly synchronized to give a harmonious chorus. Time seemed to stand still as the taste and sound drifted through the fog. Hours rolled by and no one had been able to pull themselves from the trance-like daze we were in. Then, as it had began, it ended slowly fading away into memory. Almost everyone in town had teary eyes, most of us remembering our deceased family and friends as the fog thinned out. It was such a sweet morning where we had a reminder to take time to reminisce.
We still never found the choir, or anyone who knew what had been sung. I’m not sure I want to find out so quickly. Life has been improving since then. I thought we were a supportive community before, but now? Now it seems like we have purpose. The people have come together as though we are all family and that is more than I could have expected.