A stone path whispers underfoot, each slab a page in the mountain’s diar worn smooth by boots and rain, leading me down where the world forgets its name. The lake lies still as a held breath, turquoise glass cradling the sky’s scattered clouds. Rocks hunch like old storytellers at its edge, telling tales of snow that once ruled here. Above, the great peak shoulders the heavens, grey muscle veined with stubborn green, its summit sharp enough to cut the wind and let the light bleed through in silver threads. I wander without hurry or map, heather brushing my ankles like curious cats, a lone twisted tree waving me onward as if it, too, has nowhere better to be. Cloud-shadows race across the slopes, playing tag with patches of sudden sun now the ridge glows, now it hides, a slow dance between stone and sky. Here the heart loosens its knots. No clocks, no voices, only the soft thunder of my own footsteps and the quiet reply of water lapping stone like a secret kept for centuries. I could walk this trail forever, becoming another rock, another blade of grass, until the mountain itself forgets I was ever a stranger and simply lets me stay.