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.

That feeling when you suddenly feel okay again? This.

Your words gave a gentle frame to the post.

You pulled out the soul behind the sentence.

This is why I never underestimate the comment section.

You respected the silence and made room for it.