The moon retreats to the other side as the peachy sun beams on arrival, welcoming the hard-working souls of the north. In the north, warming light treads above wooden, thatched-topped, homes. The whispering breath of the ocean wanders through the environment, feeding on a resting silence. A labyrinth of red-fenced breezeways connect to baby blue staircases, leading to every home and every level of each home. On the baby blue staircases, yellow, beige, pink, and white salamanders, large as cats, skitter down to the lowest levels. 
The people inhale and exhale in unison; they work together from morning to night, ready for the day to begin once more. There is no way outside of the buildings and the breezeways that connect. The whole island is connected in this fashion; people from one building pass through others. The sky is a vast space of unknown, as people rarely witness it's blue clouds and yellow sky beneath the wooden ceilings. They call their home a village, bustling above the ocean and surrounded by turquoise. 
The life they live is not empty of purpose, rather, at times, it seems empty of life, leaving behind only thoughtless labor. The systems of the land depend on complexity, which many avoided civilizations demand, desire. They were the only island capable of supplying the whole world with water pure enough to drink. They had power.  They only surrender to the water that encompasses them. Every action they and those around them decide upon came with a cost. Their island was the highest of status and living. They were not to interact with outsiders other than supplying them with water in a business-like manner. Whoever would think of behaving otherwise, their existence disagrees with the creed of life. It is the way.

Sometimes, when the children take a break from work and walk among the breezeways and look up towards the highest reaching building that pierced the heart of the sky, they see a pair of caramel legs kicking away clouds, swinging to the song of the land. Most adults have come to believe that the figure sitting far above that their children see is nothing but a fable, infecting their susceptible minds. They take too many breaks to listen to the radio to view the outside world. Just as the figure does.
The figure doesn't always stay there. Sometimes children will see it in the corner of their vision, walking up stairs or outside of the perimeters of the halls and walls. As though haunted by a ghost, the children of the island of the north are instructed to lock themselves in their room before curfew while their parents restlessly worked.
Only one person knows who this figure really is: a celestial. The children of the island of the north are haunted by the angel of death.

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