Tobias turns away from the signpost's lower arrow and steps onto the cloud path. The gold thread goes taut for a moment — resistant, almost startled — then slackens in his fingers as if it has decided to wait. The fairy says nothing, but her hand tightens at his collar. One step, two, and the cloud swallows them whole: a thick white silence that muffles the wind and the mountain both, leaving only Tobias's own breathing and the soft pulse of the thread in his palm. He walks blind, trusting the path underfoot. Then the cloud thins. Below him, impossibly, a village floats on nothing — small rooftops, chimney smoke rising in neat spirals, windows lit like amber beads. A rope bridge connects the nearest rooftop to the path's edge. On it, someone is already walking toward him.