What were we to do? Where were we to go? The tail of our plane dangled precariously off a cliff into fog, rocking with the piercing wind. The other half of the plane had split off and fallen beneath the fog, passengers and all. It must have been 2 days already. We continued our quest for survival, with the strongest of us climbing in and out of the plane for more resources, while others scouted around our crash site. We had a good system going, I thought, eyeing our stockpiles of food, makeshift blanket tents, and the small, flickering fire amidst the frosty air. From the chilling wind and permanent thick fog, we surmised to be trapped on a cliff atop a humongous mountain. None of us could make out the ground through the fog, neither could we hear the impact of anything we threw down. Almost instantly, there was an unspoken agreement to be silent about our situation. We knew all our hearts pounded in our ears. We knew even the slightest panic would send us all off the edge. Hence, we mourned, grieved, hoped and prayed quietly, all to ourselves. The nights were especially tough. The clothing and blankets we scavenged and fires we lit were insufficient against the roaring winds. As we braved the night, we kept our eyes peeled at the night sky, waiting. Not to worry, we will be saved.

It had been seven days since our arrival and we had stripped the plane of its resources. It was good we did when we did, for the following night a large rainstorm shook the skies. We watched the plane tail tip and groan over and into the void. Then, at last, a distant metallic crash from below. Far, far below. A little girl jumped at the noise, as if she had not expected to be able to hear it hit the ground at all. In truth, we had all probably thought the same. Despite the assurance that there was an end to our cliff, the sheer amount of time it took for us to hear the plane touch the ground dispelled any suspicions that we could do the same and survive. "It's not as if we would ever need to head down that path," a man said firmly, harbouring a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Hurry, let's light another fire." As the crowd shuffled away, I stared into the abyss and wondered if the man was right. That night, I let my eyes rest and told myself to listen for helicopters.

It was day sixteen and still no sign of rescue. With most of our sustenance drained, we finally began to ration our remaining food. As the days passed, we became more inclined to look down than up. Half of us are down there, I thought to myself. Well, half and then some. The number of people we lost from scouting, slipping, reaching the bottom of the cliff with... and without a rope dwindled our population fast. I felt myself judging them, caught up in the superiority of making better decisions. However, as I found myself looking down at the endless, haunting fog, I began to wonder if they had made the better decision. Soon, it became a matter of "if", not "when" we would be rescued. I slept deeply for the first time since we landed, as if I had subconsciously let all my worries about missing our rescuers go.

I had lost count of the number of days since we first arrived. We were weaker, colder and hungrier, and it did not help our morale to lose someone every day, whether by natural selection or by their own choosing. Our solid plan of being rescued crumbled into nothing more than a bleak miracle. Each day, the cliff lured me in and I stood at the edge, wondering if those who acted had indeed done the right thing. I would imagine the relieved shouts of rescuers and the swirling of the air as a helicopter landed, catching me as I fell. Hence, I swallowed the temptation, just in case they were wrong. Just in case I was wrong.

A few more days drifted by. My hope thinned until soon enough, all hope of being rescued was dissolved into the fog. Like many before me, I stood at the precipice and pondered. Pondered about how there were no other options, no other plans. Either I stay on the cliff forever, or put my foot forward towards a potential tomorrow. Maybe, just maybe there was freedom at the bottom. Our survivors, our friends, were waiting at the bottom.  

It was stupid. We all heard the plane fall. How could I possibly survive that? But at the very least, I would not be so cold anymore. What more did I have to lose? 

What I once thought was an irrational choice became my only salvation. As I tipped over, all that occupied my thoughts were how the plane and its fateful passengers must have felt falling from such a height. Not screaming rescuers, not illusions of helicopters, for I knew they were far from reality. The only reality that mattered to me was making the toughest decision I could. I knew what I wanted and I took a leap of faith, risking everything to achieve it. I was proud of myself. The fog swallowed me.