Fallen City

A boy wandered through a field of ruins, using great stone blocks as stepping stones.

“Careful, Denny!” The old man called out. He was busy recording the glyphs on a fallen tower. He finished quickly and stuffed the paper in his exceptionally large satchel.

“I’m bein’ careful,” the boy shouted back as he toed along a crevasse.

The old man quickly caught up with him. “Your parents will have my hide if something happens to you.”

The boy ignored him. “What is all this, Ben?”

They gazed around them, at the sea of crumbling stonework. Moss and grass grew all around, covering some stones but leaving the inscribed ones untouched.

“It’s a city, Den. The oldest city.”

“Who built it?”

“The oldest people.”

The boy gave him a look. The old man smiled.

“No one knows. We can’t even read their language. We’re just picking away at scraps of their culture.”

The boy looked up.

“How did it fall?”

The old man followed his gaze. The remains of an island floated by.

“No one knows.”

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