It was twelve a.m., which meant that curfew was set in Haven.

Prior to plugging the memory stick into his own printer in his warmly lit room, Ridge finally discovered the way to reach the bridge in the manor's storage room, which would ultimately lead him to Nevah. While the memory stick adjusted to the new printer, he began constructing the tool at his L-shaped desk. He had mulled it over in the brainstorming corner after first encountering it in Alula—that was the one that would take him to the moon. At 10 p.m., the moon would hang in the far left section of the Diurnal Bridge. Ridge would stand by the waterwheel in Falcon Plaza and look up at the moon. His gaze would be brief but thoughtful. Especially with the blimps, it was hard to focus on the moon as it gleamed through the Diurnal Bridge.

Ridge had noticed that the moon appeared large enough for a person to stand on, comparing its size to the already massive blimps. He even had to study the shadows to convince himself that it was truly far away and not just another airborne vessel hovering over Haven. The way its light draped over the city, casting silvered silhouettes along the rooftops and walkways, made it feel tangible—like he could reach out and grab hold of it.

Still, Ridge knew better. He had studied optics and listen to his father enough to understand the illusion, how the moon's proximity seemed exaggerated against the horizon. But even that knowledge didn't stop his mind from wandering.

Beyond the obvious, he had mapped the moon's speed and the distance between its body and the sky—or ceiling, as he preferred to call it. The celestial bodies of the sun and moon would actually pass through the sky, leaving no gap between Haven and Nevah. Ridge was still uncertain about what he could now make of it, but he was sure the exit was reachable at 5 a.m.

Given that the moon travels at around 2,000 mph, its distance from the sky, eight hours after full appearance (7 p.m.), would be just two meters—barely above the average Havenian. If the governors wore high boots, they could reach the exit. But leaving at 5 a.m.—five hours past curfew and an hour before sunrise—seemed excessive.

"Why the full five hours?" Ridge mused, pausing his work. He leaned back in his swivel chair, flipping over a diagram of the Diurnal Bridge's sun-moon system. The unit circle mapped their paths, marking times when the sun ruled Haven's day and the moon its night—opposite to Nevah's cycle.

(Ridge's Diurnal Bridge Diagram: )

    Ridge prodded the point on the 345-degree line that represented 5 a.m. as the moon, or 6 p.m. as the sun. The diagram represented a full 24-hour cycle, divided into degrees. Each degree corresponded to a specific hour. The time of Nevah could also be deciphered, since it gave a visual representation of how the celestial bodies moved in relation to each other, but that was not important for now. What mattered was the tool that would get him to the moon at 5 a.m., so he had to keep his shoulders to the wheel.

Ridge returned to the creation of the tool that would take him to the moon in no time. It was practical, safe, and could carry the Riskometer. The Riskometer was crucial at all times. Ridge needed it just to protect himself. The pocketwatch, which connected to the Riskometer, was to stay tucked under the ruffle of his shirt beneath his jacket. He could not afford to be ill-equipped. If he were, he would not be able to enjoy his visit to the Outdoors. Who knew what risks lay beyond the ceiling... or the walls.

After what felt like a fortnight, Ridge finished creating the tool. He exhaled deeply and checked the time. Conveniently, it was 4:30. A concentrated look crept over his face as he wagged his finger.

"The worst-case scenario would be stumbling across one of the governors who undertake these expeditions. I'm sure I checked the schedule in that room in Alula. It was the right schedule. Even the automaton confirmed it. They only go during harvest season."

Ridge pushed himself off his chair and yanked the tool off the desk. As he made his way to Falcon Plaza through the barren and dark areas, he glanced at the tool proudly. The parachute-like contraption was deceptively designed, with a propeller shaped like falcon wings. It was made that way specifically to throw off any onlookers. They would dismiss it as just a falcon, since falcons were sporadic in Falcon Plaza. Its true form would be inconspicuous when the sun was not up (as in, when it was "down" by Havenian terms). Attached to the propeller was a steering talon holding the Riskometer. There were also two bars resembling the wall that barricaded the waterwheel Ridge would lean against—bars for him to hold onto.

After donning the shoulder plates and riding the emptiest yet liveliest tram car Ridge had ever been on, he found himself standing dead center in Falcon Plaza, resolutely beneath the Diurnal Bridge. Ridge didn't look up at it—he didn't want to risk breaking his neck. Instead, his eyes took in every detail of the falcon-shaped propeller he had built. He did not fear, because he wasn't putting his life on the line. He did not retreat, because he had no regrets. He did not feel anger, because there was no one around to anger him. It was complete bliss as he readied himself for what he needed to do—at least once in his lifetime.

The only sound Ridge could hear was the rhythmic splashing of water being hoisted and then dropped by the waterwheel. His shoulders sagged in relaxation. He dipped his index finger through the air, not wagging it. He felt his nerves flow out through his finger.

It would not be his last time. He was bound to return.

Ridge stood in a starting stance, holding the propeller with the Riskometer above his head. His hands curled around the bars, rough and rigid. His eyes began to trace shapes around the sight of the lofty Diurnal Bridge, specifically the moon. Normal shapes, Euclidean shapes, and finally, topographic shapes.

Ridge dipped his head as he closed his eyes, the shapes crashing down on him. He bided his own time as he stared at the moon. His eyes then darted to a blimp. 5 a.m. It was time to say good riddance to the Havenian ground, at least temporarily, and take off. With every fiber of his body, he hunkered down until his face flushed slightly. He grunted, and a sound was produced by the propeller tool. Like a slinky, he thrust himself upwards. The falcon wings accelerated, and Ridge's boots ditched the ground.

The wind whipped Ridge as his body ascended. He let his legs flail a little, like a child experiencing water for the first time. It was a transcendent experience, seeing the moon grow nearer and larger as the Wing Monuments shrank to the size of pebbles. Artificial stars winked out through the deadly dark. If he were an astronomy fan, he would have already thrown his hands in the air and called it a day. But he was no astronomy fan, and his ambition reached far beyond that.

Ridge felt his stomach churn as he was now directly beside the moon. It exuded a glow too bright for the naked eye, prompting him to squint. "Dang it, I should've bought eyewear of some sort! Because I was so hell-bent on finishing the tool and getting here on time, I didn't factor in every possibility. Oh, why stress over something that's already happened? People who live in the past are stupid. Just think about how you'll feel when you experience the Nevah breeze for the first time. Good riddance to regret."

Ridge cackled as the almost invisible rotation of the falcon wings slowed down, landing him atop the moon. He knelt down on one knee and brushed his hand over the powdery, silver surface. It was extraordinary, and there was no denying that Ridge admired the sight and the touch. To him, there was a fine line between inspection and admiration. The latter was present as he smiled softly, his touch as light as a feather's graze. Even though the surface was rugged, touching it felt like caressing a moss of glitter gathered underwater.

Ridge breathed in as he detached the propeller tool. He was surprised that oxygen was still present up here. Maybe the governors hated wearing oxygen tanks? He took out a tracker-magnetic device clipped onto the ruffle of his shirt—the classical way of stashing portable devices—and attached it to the talon of the propeller tool while removing the Riskometer. This way, once his outing was complete, he could press the button on his shirt (disguised as an actual button) to send the propeller flying back to him like a boomerang. He scraped his boots against the moon's surface and looked up. There, embedded in the moon's silver surface, was a mechanical combination lock lodged in a hidden vent.

The fact that he was so close to Nevah was mind-boggling, but what was even more mind-boggling was the "Personnel Only" sign next to the lock.

Ridge wagged his finger and laughed, his other hand rummaging through his pocket. "What's that sign for? For silly, curious citizens like me?" What was more curious, though, was the lock hanging there loosely from a...mini bridge? It had to be the handle for a hidden door. Carefully, Ridge retrieved the filament sheet with the encrypted QR code he had printed after transferring the data. However, instead of paper, it was made from condensed cashews—an edible sheet, to put it simply. This was so he would not have to worry about hiding it or burning it after its transient use. It could be ingested and disappear without a trace. Ridge would be living the best of both worlds if he ate it after using it, but he preferred having another unwary creature in Nevah ingest it.

Ridge wasted no time holding up the filament to scan the QR code. Once access was granted and the box opened, a mechanical combination lock appeared.

Ridge reached up, feeling around—no lining. His hopes dimmed as skepticism grew. With nothing left, he grabbed the lock and examined it. A three-digit combination—simple. He calculated: 1,000 attempts, given 10³ possibilities. If each turn took three seconds, it'd take 50 minutes—almost an hour. "If that hour passes, they'll be crushed between the sky and the moon. Great. They really thought this through. Even the stakes are high for idiotic expedition rookies."

Ridge's thoughts ran rampant, and so did the moon. It was getting closer to the sky. Ridge was getting closer to doom—the doom of his ambition. His brows shot upwards as it clicked in his mind. He quickly fumbled with the locking mechanisms until they read "195." Ridge had deduced, in the cold light of day, at 5 a.m. in Haven, the moon stood 345 degrees from its origin, while at 6 p.m. in Nevah, the sun was 150 degrees away. His diagram confirmed it: those points were complementary, aligning with the Diurnal Bridge cycle. The code? Simply the difference—345 minus 150.

As soon as Ridge pulled the lock after it unbolted, a wooden ladder staggered down. Ridge clambered onto it while cradling the Riskometer. Every step brought him closer to the Outdoors. Ridge could already feel emotions of exhilaration swirl within him. Even though it was cheesy to admit, he had prepared his entire life for this, and it certainly had to pay off. His eyes narrowed at the nebulous point in the distance. His hand propped itself against a rocky surface.

First, it was his head, then the Riskometer, and finally his eyes. They widened and glimmered with newfound bliss—a feeling he left unchecked until that moment. The air sent a welcoming breeze that tousled his hair as leaves drifted past him. The new topological land around him hurtled downward into his vision. He could not make out the details just yet; he was too single-minded about his achievement. He had been dreaming of this, and now he was visiting Nevah.

The landscape made the dichotomy between Haven and Nevah immediately obvious. It seemed as though the entirety of Haven was underground, save for the Diurnal Bridge, as the other half stood out in reverse, the sun visible from afar. Nevah was in the middle of nowhere, with basalt rocks blanketing the entire area that covered Haven's sky. A maladrous, burning stench filled the air. It was barren and silent, except for the occasional shrieks and squawks from above.

Ridge's senses were heightened as he looked up. A flock of three falcons circled above him enticingly. As if he had done it before, he pulled out the cashew filament and raised his hand. Unflinchingly, he watched as one of the falcons dove downward toward him, taking the filament in its beak. As it fluttered away, its wings sent a strong gust. He felt a shiver as his hair whipped around his head. "How heavy it is."

Seeing how simple and deserted Nevah was so far knocked the wind out of Ridge. He finished climbing the ladder, letting out an eruption of laughter he had been bottling up for a long time. He was finally letting it out. He was on all fours as he laughed, invigorated to say the least. The emotions were too intense for him to handle. He laughed uncontrollably, for he could not fathom how he had gotten here. He had forgotten all the hard work it took to get here—all the strife and mundane efforts that led to the moment.

Ridge dunked his head into the basalt ground. He noticed some mud and smeared it on his upturned face. He felt all the adrenaline of a thousand savant students who had graduated and faced their Sensing Snowglobes. The feeling of the chunks of rock in the mud on his cheeks only augmented the rush of conflicting emotions.

"The exit was under my nose the whole time!" Ridge burst out laughing bitterly as he stood up, swaying from side to side, unable to regain his balance. All the unusualness was being dumped on him. He fixed his eyes on the Riskometer tucked under his arm.

"I always wanted to try this, so..." With a full-fledged grin, he hoisted it into the sultry Nevanese air, bellowing, Good riddance to 'Never visit Nevah'!"