The sky fell.

It did not crash. It shed. Like wet wool. Like old paint. It peeled back in long, silent strips of grey and white, revealing a void beneath. A blue so deep it hurt. A blue that had no name. I stood in the garden. My hands were in the dirt. I was planting tomatoes. The soil was cold. The air was still.

My husband, Elias, watched from the porch. He held a cup of tea. The steam rose. It twisted. It vanished into the nothing.

"Margaret," he said. His voice was thin.

I did not turn.

"Margaret."

I looked up. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. He looked afraid.

"The sky," he said.

"Yes."

"It is gone."

"I see it."

He set the cup down. He walked toward me. His steps were soft. He stopped before me. He took my hands. They were muddy. He did not wipe them.

"We must go inside," he said.

"No."

"Margaret, please."

"No."

He pulled at my arms. I resisted. The dirt gripped my fingers. I felt the roots of the plants. They were small. They were white. They were alive.

"Look at it," I said.

He looked. He saw the blue. He saw the empty space where the clouds had been. He did not scream. He did not cry. He just looked.

A car passed on the road below. The driver slowed. He pressed his face to the glass. He stared at us. He stared at the sky. He drove on. The engine faded.

The town was quiet. The houses were silent. The chimneys did not smoke. The birds did not sing. They hung in the air. They were still. They were waiting.

I knew what this was.

It was the Crossing.

We had talked about it. For years. We sat at the kitchen table. We drank wine. We argued. We laughed. We spoke of the old stories. The ones my mother told me. The ones Elias found in his books. The time when the world was young. The time when the veil was thin. The time when the sky was a bridge.

"It is a myth," Elias had said.

"It is a memory," I had answered.

"Memory is not fact."

"Fact is not truth."

He had rolled his eyes. He had smiled. He had touched my cheek.

"Stop being dramatic, Margaret."

I had not stopped. I could not stop. I felt it in my bones. I felt it in the mud. I felt it in the blood.

Now the sky was gone.

The blue was bright. It was absolute. It was total. It pressed against my skin. It entered my lungs. It filled my mind.

Elias held my hands tighter.

"We are going to die," he said.

"No."

"Look at it, Margaret. Look at the void. It is infinite. It is empty. It is hungry."

"It is not hungry. It is clear."

He shook his head. He looked at the neighbors' houses. The windows were dark. The doors were closed. No one was coming out. No one was screaming. They were inside. They were hiding. They were afraid.

They did not understand.

I understood.

I looked at Elias. I looked at his face. I saw the fear. I saw the doubt. I saw the man I had loved for thirty years. I saw the man who believed in logic. In data. In the solid ground beneath his feet.

He did not believe in me.

He never had.

He believed in his work. He believed in his books. He believed in the rational world. He did not believe in the Crossing. He thought I was mad. He thought I was obsessed. He thought the sky was just weather. Just light. Just air.

He was wrong.

I was right.

And that was the tragedy.

The blue pulsed. It beat. It throbbed. It was a heart. It was a lung. It was a breath.

I let go of his hands.

I stepped back.

The dirt crunched under my feet.

I walked toward the edge of the garden. I walked toward the road. I walked toward the open space.

"Margaret!" Elias called.

I did not stop.

I did not look back.

I walked into the light.

The blue wrapped around me. It was warm. It was soft. It was like water. It was like silk. It was like a hand.

I felt my body dissolve. I felt my skin fade. I felt my thoughts scatter. I felt my name disappear.

I was not Margaret.

I was not a woman.

I was not a person.

I was the Crossing.

I was the bridge.

I was the gap.

I was the silence between the notes.

I was the space between the stars.

I was the truth.

I saw Elias.

He was small. He was far away. He was standing in the garden. He was holding a cup of tea. The steam was gone. The cup was empty.

He was watching me.

He was not afraid.

He was not sad.

He was understanding.

He saw me.

He saw the truth.

He saw that I was not leaving him.

He saw that I was becoming him.

He saw that we were one.

He saw that the sky was not gone.

He saw that the sky was us.

He saw that the Crossing was not an end.

He saw that the Crossing was a beginning.

He smiled.

It was a small smile.

It was a sad smile.

It was a true smile.

He raised his empty cup.

He raised it to the sky.

He raised it to me.

He drank.

He drank the blue.

He drank the void.

He drank the silence.

And then he was gone.

The garden was empty.

The road was empty.

The town was empty.

The blue remained.

It was bright.

It was absolute.

It was total.

It was clear.

It was everything.

It was nothing.

It was the end.

It was the start.

It was the Crossing.

I was there.

I was here.

I was everywhere.

I was nowhere.

I was the sky.

I was the earth.

I was the air.

I was the time.

I was the life.

I was the death.

I was the love.

I was the loss.

I was the truth.

I was the lie.

I was the question.

I was the answer.

I was the silence.

I was the sound.

I was the light.

I was the dark.

I was the blue.

I was the void.

I was the Crossing.

And I was at peace.

And I was at war.

And I was alone.

And I was together.

And I was free.

And I was bound.

And I was me.

And I was not me.

And I was us.

And I was them.

And I was the world.

And I was the end of the world.

And I was the beginning of the next.

The sky was blue.

The sky was gone.

The sky was here.

The sky was there.

The sky was everywhere.

The sky was nowhere.

The sky was us.

The sky was the Crossing.

The Crossing was complete.

The story was over.

The story had just begun.

The end.