The Rossark family landed in Cirrus under a sheet of white. As they exited the plane, the mother's knockoff sneakers slapped against the polished concrete floor as she chided her two children to shuffle their feet. 

"Come along," the father said, his eyes adopting a pleased complaisance. He rolled the two luggage bags by himself, their wheels squeaking against the glossy ground.

"Hurry," the mother hissed. But her eyes held a similar sentiment to her husband's: hers was jumpy, his more mellow.

The son, Ren, looked at his little sister. They exchanged a silent conversation with eye prods and mouth squints. He combed his blond hair—the same as his father's—and asked,

"Hurry for what?"

The mother answered with an "Oh," before trailing into silence, gesticulating her hands indifferently. She turned around to follow her husband.

The siblings rolled their eyes at her receding back, impelling their short legs to waddle faster. They each carried a backpack. Ren's sister, Riana, had mini strawberry plushies hanging from hers, clicking as the strap met with the plastic zipper. Ren's backpack was unassuming: a simple black outline with blue infill. 

This had not been a long-anticipated trip. No, it was sudden, and it was for lack of time—not minimalism—that they had found themselves equipped with just one bag.

Their mother, however, did not hesitate in packing even the slightest items she thought might be useful: jewelry and books and clothes for all formalities. She held no reservation in declaring the impromptu trip, walking around their house complaining about their slothfulness and technology and society and the government. The husband, sitting on the couch watching television, had no desire to argue. He merely told his wife to figure it out herself, if she was so inclined. 

She was. In no time, she had found the cheapest flight to an island she had heard of only faintly: Cirrus. It was the first result of her search. A pleasing name, she thought—and nodded—to herself. Yes, she muttered, this will do. It will be—no, it must be—the perfect place to go. And in her mind she conjured up a thousand different reasons to its perfectness. The family watched the mother pace around the living room, and each grimaced to themselves: a familiar sight, watching as their mother convinced herself of her own decisions.

Now, Ren held hands with his sister and his mother. His mother dragged Ren onwards as Ren dragged Riana; their father at the fore, paying no heed to the admonishments behind him.

They walked out—as the sliding doors parted—into a world of mist: a white swath that blanketed their surroundings, and bandaged their sights. It was neither wet nor dry; Riana put her hands out in wonder and was surprised that she felt nothing but air. She commented this to her brother, who said, "Why naturally, fog is air," but nonetheless put his hand out as well. His voice seemed to run from him, evaporating with the mists.

Their mother, on the other hand, doled out compliments, insulating the family with her effusion of remarks.

"The mists of Cirrus!" She cried, breathing in the fog. "Oh, how wonderful! So these are the mists that rehydrate the soul."

The father chuckled good-naturedly. The children blanched.

"They say," the father remarked to his children, "that these mists have been here for centuries. Go on a satellite and look, and of Cirrus you'll merely see a white dot." The children feigned interest.

This is how they went up the road: the mother gasping with notable names—of shops, plazas, and stores—and the father providing the details. They passed by rings of red; streets lined with shops that came into clarity only after first remaining in solemn darkness. From their doors hung lanterns, and long yellow banners containing large unreadable characters. One particular shop had a plastic bin set by its entrance, giving away pieces of crackers (when asked, their mother told the children no, that they were going to eat "real food." Their father sneaked one into Riana's pocket.). People sauntered by, smiling cheek to cheek, tipping their hats to one another. Broken Cirrisian could be heard from the tourists, with genial English from the vendors.

Soon, the family found themselves at the butt of a crowd. Shadows of heads popped into sight. They knew it was a crowd, because of the buzzing cries that filled the air; the mists were a manifestation of the voices themselves. The world bounced beneath them from the stomping of feet.

"Oh my," the mother cried over the uproar, "what is this? A holiday?" Her hands flew to her cheek, and she popped up to her tippy-toes, inwardly congratulating herself for choosing such an ideal vacation destination. 

"How natural," she thought, a smile playing on her lips.

The father frowned, releasing the luggage handles.

"Is it really?" he asked, reaching for his phone.

The mother tapped the shoulder of another: a tourist, apparently, because his neck was layered with rosy garlands and his wrists were cuffed by a variety of wooden bracelets.

"You didn't hear about it?" the stranger responded to her inquiry, his laughing breath pushing away the wisps that hung around him, "Isn't that why you came? It's history, right here."

The mother smiled. 

"History, you don't say. Oh good, I love history."

The father kept his mouth straight. His eyes scrunched.

"History? What kind of history?"

"The historical kind, no less." The stranger pulled a beer can out of his pocket and cracked it open. "Someone—some scientists—they've managed to geo-engineer a temperature inversion. To get rid of these pesky things. No more clouds! Imagine that." He shook his head, allowing dribbles of alcohol to fall onto his beard.

The mother stopped and gasped. Her lips trembled, and her limp hand let go of Ren.

"What—what about the mists that rehydrate the soul?" she spoke this aloud, but to no one in particular.

"You still believe in that, lady?" 

The stranger managed one more chuckle before walking away, dissolving into the fog.

The mother stared up at the sky, unwilling to believe that the dense gray slate covering them would soon be erased. From a blank slate to none at all.

The father raised his eyebrows.

"Now that he mentioned it, I do remember—"

"No, no, this can't be happening!" the mother covered her eyes with her palms, refusing to look.

But it was happening. It had been as they walked through the street, as they exited the airport, even before they landed on Cirrus. The air was clearing, slow enough that it was indistinguishable from one moment to the next, but with enough impetus that, in the stack of moments, you picked out the first and last and could clearly see the difference.

And, suddenly, the fog parted like seas, an unfelt wind chasing it away. The sky showed itself, black. Stars blinked, and the moon opened its large sapphire eye.

The crowd cheered, and Ren and Riana spun in circles to watch the procession. They marveled at the building tops and the faces of strangers standing many paces away.

"How natural!" the mother cried. 

The father put an arm around his wife and whispered in her ear.

Ren looked at Riana. They grinned.

"How lucky!" Ren said. 

Riana nodded, and—holding up her phone—added, "I can't wait to tell my friends!"