Chapter 1: The Cliffs' Confession

Back when I was a local guide, I led four women up those cliffs—four, in just three days.

It still feels strange to write that, even now, hunched over my chipped kitchen table with a mug of day-old coffee and the county radio muttering in the background. Those cliffs—jagged, sun-bleached, wind-battered—make everything else seem small, even your own bad decisions.

At those overlooks, where the world falls away, there’s always someone standing on the edge, daring themselves to jump—again and again.

Folks in town like to say, "Some people come out here to find God, some come to lose themselves." I always hear Old Man Jenkins at the gas station say it, shaking his head over the lottery tickets. But those edges… it’s as if the wind itself dares people to let go of whatever they’re carrying. I never figured I’d be the one watching.

I remember a drifter once told me, “There’s still too much I haven’t tried yet. Too many joys out there.”

That stuck with me. The way he said it, like someone tasting ice cream for the first time at fifty. Or maybe it was the way his eyes flickered out over the valley—hopeful, but haunted.

After that, I wasn’t really human anymore, either.

I know how it sounds—melodramatic, maybe. But after what I saw up on those rocks, when you realize you’re part of whatever’s happening, you start to feel less like a person and more like a shadow.