Every morning, he climbed the mountain alone, following the rocky trail at that quiet hour when the light still wavers between night and day. There was no rush. He walked slowly, as if he were listening to the mountain breathe beneath his feet. Up there, everything became clearer. The air. The water. Himself. He always sat in the same spot, a ledge of light, suspended between sky and lake. He didn’t speak. He didn’t think. He simply looked.
And that’s how he crossed the threshold. The one you can’t see. The one that only opens when you stop searching.
Because in certain places, there comes a moment when everything goes still. When the world no longer expects anything from us. That kind of silence isn’t empty. It’s full. It holds the questions, the doubts, the wounds, the waiting, and it softens them. Not with answers, but with the simple presence of what is.
One golden day, he didn’t come back down. Some say he dissolved into the light. Others believe he finally found a place where he could exist without being seen. As for me, I believe he became the landscape.