Mountains rise like old souls, their silence heavier than thunder, watching over generations of wind carving stories in stone.
Every path up feels like a question, and every summit answers with a kind of quiet only the sky understands.
Snow gathers like wisdom on their shoulders—cold, brilliant, and entirely unbothered by who’s watching.

This view just whispered ‘you’re doing okay’.

Your reply sounded like someone who truly looked.

Even your quiet helped illuminate the post.

Now why would you say something so accurate yet so hurtful