It was to be the largest flag, the most expansive and fluttering, one for the record books. The whole town came together in its creation. Little of note had marked the years in that valley for a generation. The project was galvanizing, an event. It would put them back on the map. Each night for two months, five hundred sewing machines whirred, fabric was dyed to rich and luminous tints, massive eye hooks cast in long-dormant foundries. A suitable flagpole was prepared and erected, thick as a tree trunk and towering. The flag itself would be monumental, filling the sky with ripples of rich, heavy cloth, unmistakably visible from surrounding cities and further hilltops, inescapable. Labor progressed steadily, difficult but imbued with fresh hope for the future. At last, the work was complete. Every piece had been cut, collated, and attached with exacting precision and care. On the day on unveiling, the entire town gathered in the central green, before the town hall, barely breathing, as the flag was attached to great ropes and steadied. It took the effort of four large trucks to run it up the pole. The unfurling seemed to last a lifetime, brisk wind gradually spreading the expanse of the flag until it blotted the sun, spanning from horizon to horizon. A cry of jubilation went through those assembled. This was the moment of their success. All knew that they would never forget this triumph. It was then that the wind died and the flag drooped in cataclysmic descent. The town, the valley, the surrounding lands, all were plunged into deep darkness as it fell, all sound muffled, everything draped and inundated. There, in the folds of the flag, the town would labor for a generation to come, attempting to extricate themselves from this labyrinthine textile of their own making.