Somewhere in the night, a creature, probably a cat though it may have been something else, yowled. It was followed shortly by the sound of metal trash cans falling over and their contents spilling out. Silence took a moment to reassert itself and then everything was still once more. It was the hour between, in the middle of the night, when everyone assumes nothing is happening. It is an hour of silence, when every noise knows it is out of place, when every waking creature knows it should be elsewhere.

The hour happens at different times, depending on the place, but everywhere has such an hour. It is the hour when those who stay up late have gone to bed, and those who get up early have not yet risen. In this particular place, the hour begins at 3:14 AM. Some think that the hour does not happen indoors, where living things can push back the night. However, it is a thing of nature, instinctual and somewhat wild. Modern technology may distract from the hour, but it is there, nonetheless.

For most living things, the hour is rarely experienced because they sleep right through it. When they do find themselves stumbling into it, either by necessity or by accident, they often sense the strangeness to the hour. Few, however, ever come to understand or even become fully conscious of those feelings. Instead, they slink away feeling out of place and uncomfortable, trying to find some other corner of the world to inhabit where they’ll feel more at home.

The hour is most powerful outdoors. To most, there is nothing within the hour besides the silence and slight discomfort. For those who do know what the hour is, to some it brings peace, as the dark envelops them, shelters them, and to others it brings an even greater unease as they see beyond the dark to the place where fear originates. Both experiences are true for the hour holds both safety and destruction. The hour is impartial and cannot be reasoned with. Some have sought power through exploiting the hour, but such do so erroneously. There is no power to be gained through the hour. The hour is immutable. It will be what it will be.

This night, in this hour, a solitary figure walked. They were in a city and the sidewalks were illuminated in narrow hemispheres of light from the towering streetlamps. The walking figure wove a careful path, curving back and forth as they just managed to skirt the edges of the light and thus remain in the dark. Any who looked out of the nearby buildings wouldn’t have been able to see the figure.

It wasn’t supposed to be out right now, and it knew it. It knew all about the hour, knew the hour was just beginning, but still it quested out. With steps that made no sound, it crept along. Remaining silent in the hour helped to keep the dangers at bay, helped welcome in the protective, enveloping arms of the hour. There was no power that could be gained directly from the hour, it knew, but there were things that could more easily be accomplished during the hour than during other times.

Further and further out of the city they walked, always avoiding the light. They did not wish to be seen. They wanted the quiet, the solitude, and all it took was one suspicious observer to ruin the hour. The streetlamps grew fewer and farther apart. At first, they stood at such a distance so that their illumination all but overlapped with that of the other lamps on either side of it. Then, the streetlamps were only on the street corners. Eventually, there were none at all and the figure walked along more easily.

Not far from the city limits rose a particularly large hill, or perhaps it was a very short mountain. Either way it was where the figure was walking towards. The hill sloped upward along three sides but the fourth was a sheer cliff face. A walking trail led up to the summit where some benches and picnic tables were placed. By the time they reached the summit the hour was nearly ended. Most nights they tried to get here sooner but, as so often was the case with life, delays had happened. No matter, they had reached the top and they sat down on the edge of the cliff, their feet dangling out over the drop off.

Only a few minutes remained to the hour. Already a few creatures were stirring, testing the strength and the limits of the waning hour but the figure paid them no mind. Instead they focused on the view before them. The city sprawled out in a wide crescent shape around the hill. With the glint of lights breaking up the darkness it looked like a rushing wave breaking around a stone in a river. The lights stretched out for miles, marking the size of the city. Not too many years ago those lights hadn’t stretched nearly so far but the city was growing. Where fields and orchards had once been, now houses and shops stood with the streets named after the things that use to grow there.

The smell of dew began to waft up around them and a light fog coalesced. Before too long, the entire city was blanketed in mist, its lights turning from sharp points into a homogenous soft glow. The fog that formed atop the hill poured down its sides like a cascading river. The cliff face became a misty waterfall.

They smiled, glad that they hadn’t missed this moment. It only happened a few times a year and even then it only lasted a few moments. As the horizon began to lighten and the temperature shifted the dew began to collect on the ground and the mist faded away just as suddenly as it had appeared.

The hour was over, the magic of the moment ended, and another day could truly now begin. Birds and ground squirrels recognized the change and they no longer acted so timid. Birdsong and chittering began to accent the surrounding area. A few cars began to wind their way along the roads down below, and more and more homes became illuminated as their occupants awoke and began their day.

It was time to be moving on and the figure knew it. They got back to their feet and started the hike back down to the city. They didn’t bother to avoid the illuminated pools beneath the streetlamps. No one would be bothered if they saw them now. As they walked they smiled, though it was not a fully joyful one. Watching the morning mists, walking alone during the hour, was a pleasure so few people knew about, and it was that fact that brought both joy and sorrow to them. It was the solitude that they loved, the quiet stillness, and it would be ruined if more people were there. Yet the fact that there was such beauty to behold, and practically no one knew it, no one appreciated it, was enough to make them weep.

Perhaps someday there would be a way to share it without spoiling it but how to do that was beyond them. In their experience, anything involving the hour was seen as taboo. In truth, simply climbing the hill at night was illegal since no one was supposed to be up there at that time.

Regardless, it had been a beautiful and refreshing hour and they were glad for it. Now they could go back home and resume their usual routine. It was a grind at times, but as long as they could come out here and enjoy the hour, they could keep going.

One day at a time.

One hour at a time.