The mountain knows it. I know it. Hell, even she probably knows it somewhere beneath all that stubborn bravado and overpriced gear. This place doesn't forgive mistakes. Doesn't tolerate weakness. And it sure as hell doesn't welcome outsiders with curious eyes and journalist pens. She's a spark in a powder keg. One misstep and the whole thing goes up.
Her presence stirs what I thought I'd silenced. The ache. The hunger I promised I'd buried. She's not just out of place—she's a provocation. A reminder that even the mountain can't drown out everything I am.
Not just because she's soft or unprepared. But because she represents everything I left behind in the world. A world I've buried. A world that would destroy this place if it could. People like her ask questions. Questions turn into stories. Stories bring attention. And attention gets people killed.
I see her before she sees the drop-off. Rookie mistake. Her posture is all bravado, but her center of gravity is wrong. Sheleans into the slope like she's in control, like the mountain gives a damn. It doesn't.
Neither do I... and yet, I watch.
Through the scope, I track her descent—her snowmobile fighting the grade, engine whining louder than the wind, straining under the weight of poor judgment. The machine bucks against a patch of ice, fishtailing. The woman on board is wearing one of those bright rental helmets with a scratched visor and fraying straps—cheap protection in a place that offers none. And still she pushes forward, as if she believes she'll make it out the other side untouched. It's surreal seeing her here.
Real. Moving. Vulnerable.
Part of me thought she might be a ghost—that memory of her in the snow, eyes wide and lips blue, warped by time and isolation into something half-myth. But no, she's flesh and bone, bold and reckless, barreling straight into the heart of the storm like it's hers to conquer, like the mountain won't swallow her whole just for the audacity of trying.
She has no idea she's stepped into mine—my terrain, my rules, my darkness. Out here, I'm not bound by laws or civility. The mountain answers to no one, and neither do I. She thinks she's chasing a story, but she doesn't realize she's already part of mine—caught in the snare of a man who never truly let her go.
The old pull in my gut is sharp and immediate. Not warmth. Not nostalgia. Darker—possession. Hunger. Told myself I let her go once because it was the right thing to do. But watching her now, foolish and beautiful and still drawn to danger like a moth to the flame—I'm not sure I did it for her. Think I did it to keep myself in check.
And now she's here. Again.
The part of me that's been dormant for too long stirs in my chest, stretching awake like a predator from hibernation. Itpaces inside me, restless and sharp, drawn to her recklessness like blood in the water.
She's not local. Not built for this. Thin. Confident. Familiar.
The last time I saw her, she was wrapped in one of my old coats, which was too big for her shoulders, and snow had crusted in her lashes while blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. She looked at me like I was a monster and a miracle all at once. She didn't speak then, just stared, wide-eyed, lips blue and barely breathing.
Now, even bundled and helmeted, I'd know that posture anywhere. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The way she leans into the unknown like it owes her something.
And the scarf.
Red, fraying at the ends. She wore it the day I pulled her out of the ravine.
My jaw clenches.
That night haunts me in splinters: her lips blue and trembling. My coat engulfed her tiny frame. Her eyes blinked up at me like I wasn't a man, but a phantom clawed out of the snow. I still remember the way she smelled—crushed pine, copper, and something warm I couldn't place.
Caryn Stevens.
I knew she'd come back, eventually. I've seen the signs—quiet chatter down in Hollow Ridge, strange men asking about the old trailheads. Then her name slipped through at the gas station two days ago. Journalists always leave a scent. Paper and nerves. She left more than that.
I lower the scope and adjust my position on the ridge, boots biting into the crusted snow. She's close to the ravine now. Too close. I don't move. I just watch as the inevitable happens. The front track hits a patch of windblown powder, and the sled skids sideways, momentum ripping her off the seat and sending her tumbling.
A flash of limbs. Then silence.
The mountain has a way of ending curiosity. It doesn't just demand respect—it punishes the lack of it. Every tree, every ledge, every drifting mound of snow is a trap for the unwary, a test for the bold. I've seen what happens to those who come here thinking it's just scenery. The mountain doesn't forgive. It consumes. And right now, it's sizing her up, wondering if she's worth sparing—or if it should finish what it started years ago.
I should leave her.
Let the storm do what it does best. Let nature correct the mistake curiosity made. But I'm already moving, each step more betrayal than the last. I don't owe her anything. Except maybe the truth. Maybe it was the part of me she never knew she took.
I don't.
By the time I reach her, she's half-buried in the snow, lips tinged blue, hands stiff. She's breathing, but it's shallow, rattling like dry leaves. Her face is pale beneath the bruises blooming across her cheek.
She's smaller than I remember.
Or maybe I've just gotten used to being alone.
