Eruption.

The volcano erupted with full force. The air above the crater was filled with a swarm of paper airplanes, spiraling and billowing upwards. It was as if the mountain itself were sending stories and secrets out into the world, each airplane a message waiting to be caught. People were already standing on the slopes, nets high in the air, baskets open, as if catching fish in an invisible ocean.

At the edge of the eruption, a woman threw her net up at the perfect moment. The rising wind filled the canvas, and with one sweep she caught a stream of airplanes that had drifted toward her like a school of birds. Further away, children ran through the valley with open arms, chasing the tumbling planes as if they were performing a dance. One boy turned suddenly and caught a graceful black plane as it made a sharp dive just at his feet. His eyes glittered as he unfolded it and saw a simple drawing of a volcano, as if the mountain were sending him a personal greeting.

The strategists had taken up positions among the trees at the edge of the landscape. They had stretched large pieces of cloth between the branches, which, like veil-like traps, caught the planes as they floated over the trees. A man in a worn coat stood still, letting the planes whirl around him as he plucked one from the air without haste, his fingers careful and patient. He looked up at the steady rain of paper and smiled, as if he understood that it was not about quantity, but about that one perfect moment.

The volcano kept spewing out planes, thousands at a time, like a breath that never ended. Flurries of color, carefully folded wings playing in the wind, while the silhouettes of people were silhouetted against the setting sun. The rustling of paper filled the air, as did the laughter of people lost in the joy of the catch. For an hour, the world seemed to have forgotten that volcanoes could mean anything else. This mountain spat out dreams, and humanity caught them, with open arms.