One hundred hours. That is the number I whispered to myself three weeks ago, sitting in a diner at 2:00 a.m., watching the ketchup bottle sweat. One hundred hours of walking. Not toward a city, not toward a person, but toward something I have begun to call the Callary —a word I found in a dream, or perhaps a typo in a forgotten book. It sounded like a place where the horizon folds into itself.
"First step," he whispered. His voice was swallowed instantly by the dense foliage. "One hundred hours to the Callery." 100 hours walking towards the callary chapter 1