by Annabelle Clarkson
They say some places don’t exist on maps — not really. Not the way they exist in memory.
That’s how I feel about the ridge.
I never planned to go there. I was three days into a solo hike through the Pacific Northwest, chasing silence and space after a year that left me hollowed out. A breakup that came with more confusion than anger. A job I once loved now reduced to Zoom calls and spreadsheets. I needed to breathe again — and the forest had always been my place to do that.
The air was different that morning. Cool, still, and heavy with the scent of cedar and something else — something metallic, sharp at the edges. My compass spun when I reached the fork in the trail. Left led back toward camp. Right led… well, it wasn’t on the map.
So I went right.
The climb was steep, winding through trees that seemed older than time. Moss draped from the branches like green lace. The sun slipped behind a thick veil of clouds, and everything turned a dusky silver.
By late afternoon, I found a flat patch of land just below the ridge. I pitched my tent, jotted a few thoughts in my journal, made tea. Nothing strange. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until night fell.
It started with silence. Not the usual hush of the forest, but a true stillness. No owls. No insects. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then came the hum.
Low and steady, like the sound a cello string might make if it vibrated inside your bones. I unzipped the tent and stepped out barefoot, clutching my flashlight. The beam swept over trees and rocks — nothing unusual — until I saw it.
A glow.
Soft, pulsing, bluish-green — the color of bioluminescent plankton or the shimmer on beetle wings. It flickered from the trees near the ridge, not harsh like a spotlight, but alive. Like it was breathing.
I should’ve turned back. Every instinct said to go back to the tent, zip it shut, and wait for daylight.
Instead, I followed it.
The ridge leveled out into a clearing I’d never seen before, though I’ve hiked this region a dozen times. The trees formed a natural ring around it, as if guarding whatever lay in the center.
And there it was.
A craft — sleek, smooth, and utterly wrong in the way it fit into the world. Not huge, maybe the size of a van, but it hovered a foot above the moss-covered ground. Its surface rippled like liquid metal, and the hum came from inside it — not mechanical, but almost… musical.
Then they stepped out.
Three of them. Tall, elegant, glowing faintly from within. Their features were elongated, with large black eyes that reflected the stars. They weren’t frightening. They weren’t even alien in the way I’d imagined aliens.
They were beautiful.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. My breath came in shallow gasps, my heart pounding like a drum in my throat. But I wasn’t afraid. I was seen. That’s the only way I can describe it — as if they looked into me, not just at me.
One of them stepped forward, the glow around them pulsing in time with the hum of the ship.
I felt something brush my thoughts — gentle, curious. Not words exactly, but feelings. Images.
An invitation.
The moment I accepted — though I never said a word — the world seemed to tilt.
There was no beam of light, no tractor pull or sudden flash. One second I stood beneath the trees, the moss cool beneath my feet. The next, I was inside.
The space didn’t look like a ship. No control panels. No chairs. No walls, really — just open air and soft light, like being inside a waking dream. The sky was still visible above, stars spinning in elegant spirals, and below us, the world turned slowly — Earth, glowing blue and gold, veined with clouds and shadow.
I floated.
The beings surrounded me, not closing in, just… accompanying. I felt calm. Weightless. They reached out, not with limbs, but with presence. And then the visions came.
A planet covered in golden grass and twin suns that never set. A sea that sang in tones too deep for human ears. Cities that breathed like living things — not machines, but grown. I saw them move through their lives — not in isolation, but in constant communion, sharing thoughts and memories like rivers passing through each other.
And then, they showed me us.
Earth. Crowded, beautiful, burning. I saw cities at night from above — electric veins of light stitched across continents. I saw war. And music. Plastic choking oceans. Children laughing in languages I didn’t know. I saw our contradictions laid bare — our violence, our brilliance, our aching loneliness.
In return, they asked for something. Not in words. They asked me to share. A memory. A truth.
I thought of my mother, humming to herself while planting tomatoes in the backyard. I thought of my first kiss — awkward, warm, lightning behind my ribs. I thought of the moment I realized I didn’t love my job anymore, and how that realization cracked something in me.
I thought of standing alone on this ridge, yearning for something I didn’t even have a name for.
They received it all like water into soil.
And then it was over.
I woke in my tent.
Dawn was just breaking, pale light creeping into the sky. My boots were still by the flap, damp with dew. My journal was beside me, closed.
I sat up slowly, half-expecting it all to fade like a dream. But when I opened the journal, the last few pages were filled with symbols I couldn’t read — precise, looping marks drawn in a steady hand I didn’t recognize.
My compass worked again. The forest was noisy with life. Everything was back to normal.
But I wasn’t.
Back in the city, everything felt… dimmer. I tried to slip into my old routines — work, emails, weekly calls with friends — but I wasn’t really there. I carried the memory of that night like a glowing ember inside me.
I told no one — for a while. Then one day, over black coffee in a quiet café, I told my old professor from undergrad — Dr. Menser, who once hinted at strange phenomena he “couldn’t publish.” He listened without interrupting, eyes bright with recognition.
When I finished, he smiled and said, “We’re not the only ones.”
That night, when I unpacked my hiking gear to put it away, I found something nestled in my backpack pocket. A small pendant — metal, smooth and warm to the touch, marked with one of those looping symbols from the journal.
It pulsed faintly in my palm.
One year later
I returned to the ridge.
Same trail. Same trees. Same silence.
I stood in the clearing as the stars blinked overhead. The pendant lay in my palm, its surface glowing like a held breath.
And then, the forest fell still again.
A soft hum rose in the air.
I smiled.
“I’m ready,” I whispered.