I didn't write any of this down when it first happened because I thought time would make it clearer. It didn't. If anything, the details have stayed too sharp, like something my mind refuses to smooth out. This started in Kherang Valley, the summer I went to stay with my uncle. He keeps sheep there, far from the main road, in a place where the hills block most signals and news travels slower than it should.
The valley looks ordinary at first. Dry grass, scattered pines, uneven ground that makes walking tiring after an hour. But there's a section beyond the northern ridge that locals don't talk about much. Not because they're hiding anything, but because they've already decided it's not worth explaining.
The first thing I noticed was the smoke. It wasn't thick or alarming. Just thin lines rising from the cliffs at the same time every evening. Too steady to be accidental. I asked my uncle about it once while we were fixing a fence. He glanced toward the ridge and said, "Don't take the flock past that side." No explanation, just that.
I followed the rule for a few days. Then one afternoon, a sheep broke away and headed in that direction. It happens sometimes, so I didn't think much of it. I went after it, crossing the shallow slope that led toward the cliffs. The air started to feel warmer the closer I got, though the sun wasn't any stronger there. The ground had patches that looked burned, not recently, but often.
I found the sheep standing still near a cluster of rocks, not grazing, just staring upward. That's when I noticed the shape above it. At first, I thought it was a shadow or a part of the cliff that didn't match the rest. Then it shifted.
The movement was slow, controlled. Not like an animal startled or curious, but like something aware of its size and choosing not to waste energy. A long, scaled surface slid against the rock, almost silent. When the head turned, I understood what I was looking at, even if I didn't want to.
The eye opened gradually. It wasn't glowing or dramatic. It looked functional, sharp, and focused. It met mine without hesitation. There was no sudden aggression, no dramatic reaction. Just recognition.
A thin stream of smoke left its nostrils, rising in a straight line. The same kind I had been seeing from a distance.
I didn't move. The sheep didn't either. For a few seconds, nothing changed. Then it shifted its body, folding what I later understood was a wing, and moved upward along the cliff, using ledges I hadn't even noticed before. Within moments, it blended back into the rock.
I walked back slowly, bringing the sheep with me this time.
That evening, I told my uncle everything. He listened without interrupting, then said, "Now you know why we stay away." He didn't ask questions. He didn't seem surprised.
Since then, I've noticed more things. The smoke appears at regular intervals. Some mornings, there are fresh scorch marks where there were none before. And at night, if the wind drops completely, there's a low sound that carries across the valley—not loud, but deep enough to feel rather than hear.
I'm writing this now because I don't think it was just a one-time sighting.
And I don't think there's only one.