Otter Creek And the book you write's magnificent

The world he walked through now seemed entirely different from the one left behind years ago. No matter how far he travelled or how often he backtracked thereafter, few things were familiar to him; the overall lay of the land was relatively similar but still not exact, alterations made by whatever force once shook the ground underfoot. But no matter how far he trekked, over the varying terrains and into unfamiliar territories, he always found himself back near the base of the mountains. Somewhere hidden within them, secluded by their rage, was home—

—his first home, his place of birth. The one place he was once so desperate to get away from, with inhabitants that he hoped would never find him. Yet now, following maturation and the diminishing of his former streak of rebellion, he wished to return. He did not expect anyone to be there now, the idea that any of them would have remained too far-fetched, even by his standards. But something about those distant memories, the fleeting images of willow branches swaying with the gentle breeze, enticed him.

Something was calling him home.

Distrusting of the mountains and the rocky outcroppings that formed it, Eros lingered near to it only. If a greater length of time would pass without any landslides, he could find it within himself to trust his own capabilities enough to maneuver the mountains. But as it currently stood, he just wasn’t willing to take the risk; he was alone now, any friend once known long gone, and to play with fire at this point would undoubtedly paint him a fool. It was tempting, though, and terribly so—and the range knew how to corrupt him, drawing his gaze upwards as he traced each and every visible crevice.