Snow, like a bridal veil, draped the mountain peaks in winter. In spring, the braided green mountains shouldered the clouds while in summer, wild columbine set the mountains ablaze. Each sunrise renewed its vow of beauty, and when the sun set, it was as if the earth had split open to reveal its deepest colors.
Measured against any other place on earth, Skyville, North Carolina, had no peers. It was the kind of place that defined and inhabited a person no matter if they were born in it or serendipitously stumbled upon it. While they were there, it devoured them; when they weren’t, they craved it. In its isolated beauty, Skyville was a place that heaven might have called a neighbor.
Or so they said.