An airliner soared above the ocean, streaking across the sky. It left a long contrail between the stacked layers of clouds, like the persistent wake left by a turning submarine. The surface of the sea was an opaque mirror, half reflecting and half devouring the heavens. The waters, too, seemed to yearn for the ever-changing clouds, so that the fish might swim among them.
They could enjoy the morning light at dawn and hide from the scorching sun in the afternoon. Then, as evening fell and the sun began to set, the fish could bathe in the fleeting colors of the crimson afterglow, their bodies weaving together before vanishing back into the sky.
Chen Yuan stood on the deck of a cruise ship, leaning against the cold, hard railing. He drew his gaze down from above, wondering if clouds were the language of the sky, a language that only those with a special understanding could read.
