Where the Cliff Stops Explaining Itself

More about Where the Cliff Stops Explaining Itself

Rafito el Varado stood at the edge of the cliff where the rock ended without explanation. The stone dropped away in a clean decision, revealing the sea laid out like a finished thought. Pine trees leaned over the edge, curious but disciplined, their roots holding a quiet argument with gravity.

Below, the water was a deep blue that seemed unconcerned with being admired. It moved steadily, performing its job without embellishment. Rafito rested his hand on the warm rock. It felt reliable, like something that would still be there if everyone forgot to look at it.

Across the gap, a small tower rose among trees, modest and exact. It did not signal or invite. It simply existed, which Rafito respected. The shrubs along the cliff wore pale greens and dusty blues, colors that had learned how to survive without applause.

A breeze came through, rearranging the air briefly and then returning it to order. Rafito watched shadows slide along the rock face, slow and deliberate, as if the sun were measuring something it intended to keep.

He sat down where the stone formed a natural seat. From there, the land folded into itself—ledges, terraces, and broken faces arranged like a map that had given up on being useful. Nothing asked for interpretation. Nothing hinted at meaning.

Rafito took out a small orange and peeled it carefully. The scent drifted outward, mild and correct. He ate it in sections, placing the peel beside him in a neat spiral. The sea did not respond. The trees did not comment. This felt appropriate.

When he stood, the cliff remained unchanged. The tower stayed where it was. Rafito walked away along the narrow path, leaving the place intact, satisfied that it required nothing further from him and that he had not taken more than he arrived with.