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.