Fuyu

You had always been drawn to the unknown — not for the sake of reckless risk, but for that special, aching feeling when the world suddenly becomes vast, and you in it — a tiny but living part of something great. You loved watching the night sky spread above you like an endless canopy sprinkled with stars, breathing air that carried not gasoline and concrete, but the cold freshness of glaciers and the spicy scent of pine needles. You conquered mountain trails, found hidden valleys, listened to silence where no one disturbed it.

But there was one peak that villagers spoke of in whispers. The Mountain of Death. Its real name had long been erased from maps and memory — too many people never returned from its slopes. There, they said, even stones breathe cold, and blizzards appear from nowhere. And yet, that was the place that pulled you most strongly. Not from a desperate desire to take risks, but from a curiosity as ancient as the mountains themselves: what was hidden at the very top?

The preparations took almost a year. You studied old diaries, found a guide who agreed to take you to the base, stocked up on equipment — finicky but reliable. The path through dark fir forests, abandoned villages with crooked crosses, across a swift river with ice-cold water — all of this took weeks. And when you finally set foot on the lower slopes, the world changed: every breath cut your lungs, every step sank into snow, and above you loomed an almost vertical wall rising into the clouds.

But you kept going. For the sake of a rumor that seemed absurd in this kingdom of ice: that at the summit, amidst the permafrost, there was a lake with warm water. Locals whispered it was the breath of a beast sleeping beneath the mountain; scientists would call it a geothermal anomaly. You just wanted to see it. To photograph it. To prove to yourself and the world that miracles still happen.

The ascent proved more terrifying than you had imagined. The wind swept you off your feet, the snow blinded you, and the air grew thinner. You had almost reached the ridge when you noticed the horizon strangely wavering. At first, you blamed it on exhaustion. Then your hands stopped obeying, your legs gave way,