And then a sound weaves through the mist, as if several threads of voices are joining together at once.

“Chin up,” it whispers.

The face keeps changing—one minute old, the next minute young.

“Are you a cloud shepherd?” I ask.

“We are we.” The voices gather and whisper.

Now the bushy eyebrows are back, over a bulbous nose, and another gentle smile.

“Cloud shepherds don’t save people,” I say. “But you saved me. Why?”

“We’ve watched you. We watch everyone. And we took pity. We know you are weary, young witch hunter.”

I shake my head. “I’m not a witch hunter. But can I ask you some things?”

“We will answer what we can.”

“Did my mom discover a great secret to finding and fighting the witches, or not? Is there any chance my brother is alive? Why didn’t my weapon work?” The questions come out in a rush. I can’t help it.

The cloud frowns. There is a long silence.

“We’re afraid we don’t know your brother’s fate.”

My heart sinks.

“But we can tell you a story. It begins with a lost item. Found by a man. Given to a woman.”

I wait breathlessly.

The cloud dissipates, and the face disappears completely. A moment later, a shape rises up before me—a girl, about twelve years old—all made of mist. I know instantly that it’s my mom.

Figures appear all around the girl, and by the way they circle and float, I can see they are ghosts. I smile. It’s my mom seeing ghosts, and talking to them.

The girl grows. She’s now a young woman, climbing aboard a ship. Setting off to search for witches, I guess. A few miniature clouds float in and out of the scene, high above her, with kind eyes watching her.

The clouds rearrange themselves again and again, to show my mother climbing a mountain, walking the edges of a snowy field, walking into villages, talking to people (though I can’t hear the words), sleeping in a doorway in the rain—no doubt searching for witches and their secrets. The moments rise up and then drift out of sight. My heart swells with pride in the person my mom used to be.

And then a beautiful ship rises up out of the mist, and my mom—a grown woman—stands at one of the rails. Across the deck, a figure watches her. A fisherman with a kind, familiar face. My heart flutters because I know this face by heart, even from photos. This is the moment she meets my dad. I reach my hand out and let it drop as it moves through nothing but mist.

The picture vanishes. The face of the cloud shepherd smiles at me again.

Another scene rises up, just briefly. It’s my dad, pulling in his nets near a shore.