Morning arrived quietly.
It was not the sort of quiet that brought peace, or the stillness that allowed a soul to rest after a long night of labor. It was a dead, hollow silence, the kind that settles over a valley after a house has collapsed or a throat has run completely dry from screaming.
The fire had finally burned itself out during the darkest, coldest hours before dawn, leaving behind nothing but the black, skeletal ruins of what used to be a shelter, and patches of smoke-blackened snow that looked like grease stains against the white mountain. The ridge looked smaller now. It was as if the fire hadn't just consumed wood and cloth, but had eaten into the stone itself, hollowing out the mountain until it felt like an empty shell.
No one spoke while the graves were prepared. Words had become too heavy to carry, and any attempt at conversation felt like a waste of the breath they needed just to stay warm.
