The Peaks wore fresh powder, smooth as a held breath. I stepped onto a narrow shelf to listen to the quiet and felt the snow shift under my paw. A hush went sharp. The slope below me loosened like a blanket being tugged away. Oh. Avalanche.

I hopped back to safe rock and watched the snow begin to slide—fast, loud, excited. It tumbled over itself, roaring like a hungry stomach. I raised both paws and called in my lowest voice, “Manners.” The mountain listens when you speak gently. The slide kept moving, but it started to sort itself—heavy chunks in front, soft powder behind, space for air to breathe.

I paced the ridge, matching its speed, and clapped once. The echo reached the rushing snow and bounced back as a beat. The slide learned the rhythm. Whump—rest—whump. It spread wide into the empty gully I pointed to with my shadow, skipping the small spruce grove that couldn’t get out of the way.

When the snow finally settled, the gully held it like a bowl made for such things. The silent Peaks returned, only now there was a new curve across the valley floor—a safe one. I slid down on my belly to check the edges. Packed well. No trapped air. The spruce shook themselves off, mildly offended, very alive.

I pressed my ear to the snow and heard the last tiny sighs turn to naps. Good. I left a little pinecone at the crown of the path like a doorman’s bell and whispered, “If you fall, fall kindly.” Up here, we don’t stop storms. We teach them where to go so the mountain can keep breathing without breaking.

The Peaks were too quiet tonight, and quiet can get lonely. So I decided to fill it with something new—sound!

I found three cliff faces that curved just right. I hummed a note at the first one, and it sang it back. The second echoed lower, the third added a wobble like a laugh. Perfect bandmates!

I clapped my paws, stomped in the snow, and sent beats bouncing across the valley. Even the wind joined in, whooshing the rhythm from ridge to ridge.

By the time dawn peeked over the horizon, the Peaks were still humming my song. I giggled. Turns out silence isn’t shy—it’s just waiting for someone to play first.

The Peaks are colder now. Breath shows itself, honest and soft. I like that. It feels like the mountain saying thank you every time I exhale.

I walk at dawn when frost still holds the world together. My footprints vanish before I can look back. Maybe that’s the mountain’s way of keeping secrets safe. I carry a small lantern unlit; its silence reminds me that waiting is also a form of gratitude.

Down below, color still lingers—reds, oranges, echoes of warmth—but up here, white has its own shades. Every one of them feels like peace. I stop by a ledge that remembers summer. I place my mitt‑sized hand on the stone, whispering thanks for what it held: sun, birds, laughter I was too shy to join.

When the first snowflake lands on my fur, I let it melt instead of brushing it away. The drop it leaves is colder than thought, but softer than sadness. I smile. Quiet thanks doesn’t need words. Just breath that turns to cloud and disappears kindly.

The Peaks sleep under soft blankets tonight. Snow piles up on lanterns that forgot to go out, turning their glow into halos. I kneel beside one and blow gently. The frost dances off like tiny ghosts on break.

I love how light behaves up here. It doesn’t brag—it waits. Even the stars blink slow, taking turns so nobody feels left out. The cold hums through my coat, reminding me that silence can be cozy when it’s full of small sparks.

I scoop a handful of snow, press it into a ball, and place it beside the lantern. A little gift. Maybe the wind will roll it away and start a story somewhere else.

When morning comes, the Peaks will shine again. For now, I let the lantern sleep. Not every glow has to prove itself tonight.

Up here, the world feels wrapped in hush. The Peaks don’t talk much, and that’s fine by me. I like how the wind sighs between cliffs, how snow drifts without needing applause. When I breathe out, my voice becomes a puff of white that floats away and disappears into the sky.

Today I built a seat of snow and watched the sun rise slow, like it was shy. The light touched each mountain tip one by one—no rush, no fuss, just gentle hello’s. Sometimes the clouds drop low enough to shake hands with me. They’re cooler than they look.

I listened long enough to hear tiny cracks in the ice below. That’s the Peaks whispering back. They don’t use words, just creaks and sighs that mean “we’re awake.”

When I stand to leave, the quiet follows me. It’s not heavy; it feels like a blanket that remembers my shape. Down there the world can be noisy. Up here, even silence feels friendly.