"Tangerine Falls Was Dry":
I’m hiking Cold Spring Trail with Jamie and Taylor, just outside Santa Barbara. The path is rugged, a mix of loose dirt and jagged rocks that crunch under our boots. The air smells of dry sage, and the trail snakes through thorny brush toward Tangerine Falls, which is barely a trickle today, the rocks around it cracked and parched from the drought. We’re laughing about some dumb work story, our voices echoing off the canyon walls, but there’s this quiet undercurrent, like the trail’s watching us.
Jamie stops to adjust his backpack, and I pause to sip water, scanning the hills. That’s when I hear it—a faint, uneven sound, like someone crying. It’s so soft I think I imagined it, but it comes again, sharper. My skin prickles. “Guys, hold up,” I say, lowering my bottle. “You hear that?”
Taylor tilts her head, her ponytail swaying. “What is that?” she whispers. Jamie’s quiet, his eyes narrowing as he listens. The sound shifts into a weak sob, coming from somewhere off the trail, deeper in the brush. My stomach twists. It’s not a bird or a coyote. It’s human, and it sounds desperate.
“Someone’s in trouble,” Jamie says, his voice low but steady. He’s always the calm one, but I can see his jaw tighten. We look at each other, unsure but already moving. The trail’s narrow here, and we push through brittle branches, thorns snagging my sleeves. The crying gets louder, more ragged, and my heart’s hammering now. I’m picturing all sorts of things—someone lost, hurt, or worse.
We step over a gnarled root, and I spot something that makes me stop cold: a backpack, half-buried in the dirt. It’s torn, one strap ripped clean off, like someone fell hard and dragged it. There’s a water bottle nearby, cracked, a faint stain of something dark on the ground. “Oh no,” Taylor says, her hand grabbing my arm so tight it hurts. “What happened here?”
“Let’s keep going,” I say, my voice shakier than I’d like. The sobbing’s closer now, mixed with words I can’t quite make out. We move faster, dodging rocks, my eyes scanning every shadow. The trail dips, then climbs toward a rocky outcrop. The sound’s coming from there, I’m sure of it.
We round a bend, and my breath catches. Below us, maybe ten feet down a steep ledge, lies a guy. He’s sprawled on the rocks, his body twisted at an angle that’s all wrong. His arm’s bent backward, bone poking through skin, and there’s blood pooled around his head, dark and sticky on the stones. My knees feel weak, and I grab a tree to steady myself. Jamie’s frozen beside me, his face pale. “Is he… dead?” he asks, barely a whisper.
I can’t answer. My eyes are locked on the guy’s face—young, maybe our age, his eyes open but empty, staring at nothing. Taylor’s breathing fast, her hand over her mouth. Before we can say anything else, the cry comes again, louder, from up the trail. “Help… please… anybody…”
We scramble up the path, my legs shaking, trying not to look back at the body. The rocks are loose here, slipping under my boots, and I’m terrified of falling too. Near a cluster of boulders, we find her—a girl, curled against a rock like she’s trying to disappear into it. Her legs are mangled, ankles swollen to twice their size, bruised purple and black. Her wrist hangs limp, clearly broken, and her face is ghostly pale, streaked with dirt and dried tears. She’s trembling, her breaths short and sharp.
“Hey, hey, we’re here,” I say, dropping to my knees beside her. Her eyes snap to mine, wide with fear, like she’s not sure we’re real. “You’re okay now, we’ve got you.”
Taylor’s already fumbling with her phone, muttering, “Come on, signal, please.” Jamie kneels too, pulling off his jacket and draping it over the girl’s shoulders. She flinches, gasping in pain, and I see fresh blood seeping through her torn jeans.
“What happened?” I ask, keeping my voice soft, like I’m talking to a scared kid. “Can you tell us?”
She swallows hard, her lips cracked. “We… we got lost,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Me and Brenden… it got dark. We only had our phones for light. We kept slipping… falling. My legs…” She stops, her eyes filling with tears. “He went for help… said he’d come back. But he didn’t.”
My heart sinks. Brenden. I glance at Jamie, and his face says he’s thinking the same thing: the guy on the rocks. Taylor’s still pacing, holding her phone up like it’s a lifeline. “I’ve got one bar,” she says. “Calling 911 now.”
“Who are you?” I ask the girl, trying to keep her talking, keep her awake. Her eyes are fluttering, like she’s fighting to stay conscious.
“Saylor,” she says, her voice breaking. “My name’s Saylor. We… we thought we could make it to the falls and back. But it got so dark… the trail was gone.” She starts crying, soft sobs that make my chest ache. “I heard him yell… then nothing. I’ve been here all night.”
All night. Alone, hurt, not knowing if her friend was alive. I can’t imagine it. “You’re not alone anymore,” I say, touching her shoulder lightly. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”
Taylor finally gets through to 911, her voice sharp as she explains. “Cold Spring Trail, near Tangerine Falls. We found a girl, badly hurt, and… and a guy. He’s… he’s dead.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she turns away, hand shaking as she grips the phone. “They’re sending a helicopter,” she says after hanging up. “But it’s gonna take at least thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes. It feels like forever out here, with Saylor shivering and the image of Brenden’s body burned into my mind. I keep seeing his twisted arm, the blood, the way his eyes stared at nothing. My stomach churns, and I force myself to focus on Saylor.
Jamie’s talking to her now, his voice calm. “Hey, Saylor, you like music? Bet you’ve got a favorite band.” He’s trying to distract her, and I’m grateful. She nods weakly, mumbling something about liking indie rock. I sit closer, holding her good hand, feeling how cold her fingers are.
“I thought I’d die here,” she whispers, her eyes locked on mine. “I kept calling… no one came. I thought he’d come back.” Her voice breaks, and I squeeze her hand, not knowing what to say. The guilt in her words is heavy—she blames herself for Brenden leaving.
“You did everything you could,” I say, but it feels useless. I’m scared she’s slipping away, her breathing too shallow, her face too pale. I glance at the trail behind us, half-expecting to hear footsteps, someone else coming to help. But it’s just us, the empty canyon, and that awful silence where Brenden’s body lies.
Every sound makes me jump—a twig snapping, a bird darting through the brush. My mind’s playing tricks, imagining Brenden moving, standing up, even though I know it’s impossible. I keep my eyes on Saylor, but the ledge is there in my peripheral vision, pulling at me.
Taylor’s pacing again, checking her watch. “Where’s that helicopter?” she mutters. She’s trying to stay strong, but I can see her hands trembling. Jamie keeps talking to Saylor, asking about her favorite songs, her hometown, anything to keep her awake. She answers in short bursts, her voice fading.
Minutes crawl by. The canyon feels smaller, like it’s closing in. I notice little things—the scuff marks on the rocks where Saylor must have dragged herself, a broken phone screen half-buried in the dirt. I wonder how long she screamed for help before her voice gave out.
Finally, we hear it—the faint thump of helicopter blades, growing louder. My shoulders sag with relief, but it’s not over. The chopper appears, a black dot against the sky, hovering above the canyon. Ropes drop, and two rescuers rappel down, their boots hitting the ground hard. One kneels by Saylor, checking her pulse, her injuries.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he says, his voice steady as he straps her to a stretcher. She grabs my hand again, her grip weak but desperate. “Thank you,” she whispers, tears spilling down her cheeks. I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
The other rescuer asks about Brenden, and I point to the ledge, my voice barely working. “Down there,” I manage. He nods, his face grim, and heads down with another guy. I don’t watch. I can’t.
They lift Saylor into the helicopter, her stretcher swaying as it rises. The chopper’s blades whip up dust, stinging my eyes. As it pulls away, the rescuers stay to deal with Brenden’s body. I hear them talking in low voices, but I don’t listen. I don’t want to know.
We start the hike back, the three of us silent. The trail feels different now, like it’s not ours anymore. Every rock, every shadow feels wrong, like the canyon’s holding onto what happened. Taylor’s staring at the ground, her arms crossed tight. Jamie’s walking slow, his face blank.
I keep replaying it—Saylor’s broken legs, Brenden’s lifeless body, the way she said she heard him yell. Did he know he was falling? Did he feel it? My chest hurts thinking about it. We found her in time, but Brenden… we were too late.
The trail stretches on, familiar but haunted. I know I’ll never come back here. The image of that ledge, the blood, Saylor’s terrified eyes—it’s all stuck in me, like a splinter I can’t pull out. We keep walking, but part of me feels like it’s still up there, waiting in the silence.
"The Fall on Federation Peak":
I’d always loved hiking. The way the trail stretched out like a promise, the crunch of dirt and leaves under my boots, the quiet of the wilderness—it felt like the world made sense out there. My friends Lisa and Tom were the same. We’d tackled tough trails together, from the Blue Mountains to the Grampians, but Federation Peak in Tasmania was different. People called it Australia’s hardest climb, a beast of a mountain with cliffs that dropped straight into nothing. We’d spent months preparing, poring over maps, checking gear, and reading about the peak’s reputation. It was thrilling, but deep down, I felt a flicker of fear. This wasn’t just a hike—it was a test.
We started at Farmhouse Creek, our packs heavy with ropes, food, and a personal locator beacon, just in case. The trail was rough from the start, a narrow path swallowed by thick forest. Mud clung to our boots, thick and slick, making every step a fight. Branches snagged at my jacket, scratching my face like they wanted to hold me back. Pink ribbons and faded orange arrows marked the way, tied to trees or painted on rocks, but they were easy to miss in the tangle of roots and undergrowth. “This is wild,” Tom said, his voice bright as he pushed through a curtain of ferns. He was always the optimist, his grin wide under his battered cap. “If we can conquer Feddy, we can conquer anything.”
Lisa, a few steps behind, laughed but it sounded forced. “Don’t jinx us, Tom. This place doesn’t mess around.” She adjusted her pack, her dark braid swinging as she glanced at the dense trees. I nodded, my stomach tightening. The forest felt alive, watching us. But I shook it off—we were ready. We had to be.
The first day was grueling. The trail climbed steeply, forcing us to scramble over mossy boulders and duck under fallen logs. My thighs burned, and sweat stung my eyes. We stopped to rest at a small clearing, the ground soft with damp leaves. Tom pulled out his water bottle, taking a long swig. “You guys okay?” he asked, wiping his mouth. “This is just the warm-up.” I forced a smile, my chest heaving. “Yeah, just loving the mud bath.” Lisa snorted, digging out an energy bar. “Speak for yourself. My boots are never recovering.” We laughed, the tension easing for a moment, but the mountain loomed in my mind, waiting.
By the second day, the forest thinned, and the trail turned into a rocky scramble. Loose stones shifted under my hands, and I had to focus to keep my grip. My pack felt like it weighed a ton, pulling at my shoulders. We reached a narrow ledge by midday, the valley sprawling below us, Lake Geeves glinting like a distant mirror. “Look at that,” Lisa said, her voice soft with awe. “Worth every blister.” I nodded, but my eyes were drawn to the cliff ahead—the final ascent to the peak. It was a sheer wall of gray rock, jagged and unforgiving, rising 600 meters above the valley floor. The drop made my head spin, like the ground was pulling me down.
Tom clapped his hands, breaking the silence. “Alright, team, this is it. The big one.” He checked his climbing harness, his movements calm and practiced. Tom was our best climber, always steady, always sure. “I’ll lead,” he said, already tying in the rope. “Just follow my holds, and we’ll be at the top in no time.” Lisa glanced at me, her face pale. “This is insane,” she muttered. “Why do we do this to ourselves?” I tried to laugh, but my throat was dry. “Because we’re idiots,” I said, forcing a grin. She rolled her eyes, but her hands shook as she checked her gear.
We started the climb, Tom moving first, his hands finding cracks in the rock like he’d done this a hundred times. The stone was cold and rough under my fingers, biting into my skin. I focused on his back, his red jacket a bright spot against the gray cliff. My heart pounded, not just from the effort. The drop below was a constant threat, a yawning emptiness that made my legs tremble. Lisa was just below me, her breathing loud and uneven. “You okay?” I called down, my voice tight. “Yeah,” she gasped. “Just don’t look down.” I didn’t need the reminder.
Halfway up, Tom paused, adjusting his grip on a narrow ledge. “Almost there,” he shouted, his voice carrying a hint of triumph. “You guys got this.” I clung to the rock, my fingers aching, sweat dripping into my eyes. The wind tugged at me, and for a second, I imagined losing my grip, falling into the void. I pushed the thought away, focusing on Tom’s steady movements. He reached for a new hold, his foot testing a small outcrop. “Solid,” he called. “Keep coming.”
Then it happened. A scrape, sharp and sudden, like metal on stone. Tom’s foot slipped, just a fraction, but it was enough. His body lurched, hands clawing at the rock. “Tom!” I screamed, my voice raw. He twisted, trying to catch himself, but the rock gave way. He fell, his body tumbling past us, arms flailing. It was so fast, yet every second burned into my mind—his red jacket spinning, his face frozen in shock. He hit the rocks below with a sickening thud, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Then silence, heavy and wrong.
Lisa’s scream tore through the air, high and broken. I couldn’t move, my hands locked on the rock, my eyes fixed on the spot where Tom had landed. He was a crumpled shape, motionless, far below. My chest heaved, but I couldn’t breathe. “No, no, no,” Lisa whispered, her voice shaking. “He’s okay, right? He has to be okay.” I wanted to believe her, but I knew. That sound, that awful sound—it meant he was gone.
We scrambled down to the ledge, our hands trembling so badly we nearly slipped. My legs felt like jelly, and my heart pounded so hard it hurt. We couldn’t reach him—he was too far down, on a rocky outcrop below the cliff. I stared at his body, willing him to move, to sit up, to wave. But he didn’t. Lisa grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “We have to get help,” she said, her voice cracking. “We can’t leave him there.” I nodded, fumbling for the personal locator beacon in my pack. My fingers were clumsy, shaking, but I pressed the button, the red light flashing like a heartbeat. “They’ll come,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “They have to.”
We sat on the ledge, the world too big, too quiet. The valley stretched out below, beautiful and cruel. Every sound made me flinch—the wind whistling through the rocks, the rustle of leaves in the distance. Lisa hugged her knees, her face streaked with tears. “Do you think he felt it?” she asked, her voice so small I barely heard her. I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not.” But I couldn’t stop seeing his fall, the way his body twisted, the look on his face. It played over and over in my head, like a loop I couldn’t escape.
Hours passed, and no one came. The light faded, and a thick fog rolled in, wrapping the mountain in a gray shroud. The air felt heavy, pressing against us. Every noise seemed louder now—a branch snapping below, a low growl that made my skin crawl. “What was that?” Lisa whispered, her eyes darting to the trees far below. I gripped her hand, my heart racing. “Just an animal,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. I’d read about Tasmanian devils, their eerie calls, how they scavenged anything they could find. What if one was out there, drawn by Tom? The thought made my stomach churn.
We huddled closer, our backs against the cold rock. The fog made everything blurry, like we were trapped in a nightmare. My body ached from the climb, from the cold, from the weight of what we’d seen. “Do you think they’ll find us?” Lisa asked, her teeth chattering. I wanted to say yes, to be strong for her, but the words stuck. What if the beacon didn’t work? What if we were too remote? Federation Peak was notorious—people had died here before, their bodies lost for days. I pushed the thought away, but it clung to me, heavy as the fog.
Another growl came, closer this time, deep and guttural. Lisa’s hand tightened in mine. “That’s not the wind,” she said, her voice shaking. I strained to see through the fog, but it was useless. The darkness pressed in, and every rustle, every creak, felt like a threat. “It’s probably just a wallaby,” I said, trying to sound calm. But my mind raced—what if it wasn’t? What if something was stalking us, waiting? The mountain felt alive, hostile, like it wanted us gone.
The night dragged on, endless. We didn’t sleep, just sat there, listening, jumping at every sound. My fingers were numb, my legs cramped, but moving felt impossible. I kept replaying Tom’s fall, wondering if I could’ve done something—shouted a warning, checked his rope. Guilt mixed with fear, gnawing at me. Lisa was quiet now, her head resting on her knees. “We’re going to be okay,” I said, more to myself than her. She didn’t answer, just squeezed my hand.
At one point, a sharp crack echoed below, like something heavy moving through the brush. My heart stopped. “What’s down there?” Lisa whispered, her voice barely audible. I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. The fog hid everything, but I imagined eyes watching us, teeth glinting in the dark. I clutched the beacon, its red light still flashing, our only hope. “They’re coming,” I said, my voice firm. “They have to be.”
Dawn finally came, the fog thinning to reveal the valley below. The thrum of a helicopter broke the silence, faint at first, then louder, closer. Relief flooded me, so strong I almost cried. The chopper appeared over the ridge, its blades slicing through the air. Rescuers rappelled down, their faces grim but kind. “You’re safe now,” one said, helping us into harnesses. I couldn’t look at the rocks below, couldn’t face where Tom was. My legs shook as they lifted us into the chopper, the mountain falling away beneath us.
Later, at the hospital, they told us they’d found Tom’s body. A fall like that, they said, was instant. I wanted to believe it, to think he didn’t suffer, but the sound of that thud haunted me. Lisa and I didn’t talk much after. We were alive, but something broke that day on Federation Peak. The mountain took Tom, and it took a piece of us too. I still hear the growl in the dark, see his body falling when I close my eyes. I don’t hike anymore. The trails don’t feel like freedom now—they feel like a trap, waiting to swallow us whole.
"The Last Ascent":
We’d been dreaming about Federation Peak for over a year, my best friend Melissa and me. It was the ultimate challenge, a jagged, unforgiving mountain in Tasmania’s Southwest National Park that every serious hiker in our circle talked about with a mix of awe and fear. We’d tackled plenty of tough trails before—the Overland Track, the Three Capes, even a rainy slog through the Blue Mountains. But Federation Peak was different. The maps we pored over at my kitchen table showed a brutal climb: steep scrambles, exposed ridges, and a final ascent that looked like it could swallow you whole. “This is our Everest,” Melissa said, her eyes sparkling as she traced the route with her finger. “We’re gonna stand on that summit and feel like queens.”
We spent weeks preparing. Melissa was meticulous, checking our gear twice—ropes, carabiners, first-aid kit, enough food and water for a week. I packed the emergency beacon, a clunky thing we’d never used but always carried. “Better safe than sorry,” I said, stuffing it into my pack. She laughed, tossing me a granola bar. “You worry too much. We’ve got this.” Her confidence was infectious, and by the time we hit the trail on March 21, 2016, I was buzzing with excitement, ready to conquer the peak with her.
The first day was tough but manageable. The trail wound through dense forest, the ground soft with moss and mud. We chatted as we walked, our boots sinking slightly with each step. “Remember that time we got stuck in the rain on Cradle Mountain?” Melissa said, grinning. “You swore you’d never hike again.” I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, and here I am, following you up another crazy mountain.” We were in high spirits, swapping stories and planning our victory photo at the top. That night, we camped near a small creek, the sound of water lulling us to sleep under a tarp stretched between trees.
By the second day, the trail got serious. The forest gave way to open scrub, then rocky slopes that forced us to use our hands as much as our feet. My calves burned, and my pack felt heavier with every step. Melissa was ahead, her red jacket a bright spot against the gray rock. “You good back there?” she called, glancing over her shoulder. “Just enjoying the view,” I panted, trying to keep up. The cliffs around us were steep, dropping into valleys so deep I couldn’t see the bottom. My stomach churned every time I looked down, but I focused on her, on the rhythm of our steps.
That afternoon, we met another hiker coming down. He was older, his face lined and serious, his pack battered from years on the trails. “You two headed for the summit?” he asked, eyeing our gear. We nodded, and he frowned. “Be careful up there. The last stretch is no joke. Narrow, loose rocks, and the drop…” He trailed off, pointing to the cliffs. “One wrong move, and you’re gone.” His words hung in the air, heavy and cold. I swallowed hard, but Melissa just smiled. “Thanks for the heads-up. We’ll take it slow.” As he passed, I grabbed her arm. “You think he’s exaggerating?” She shrugged, but her eyes flickered with something—doubt, maybe. “We’re fine. Just stay focused.”
The third day was when it really hit me how wild this place was. The trail turned into a near-vertical scramble, with loose gravel sliding under our boots. We clipped into ropes for the steeper sections, our hands raw from gripping rock. The path narrowed to a ledge, barely a foot wide, with a sheer drop on one side. My heart hammered as I inched along, pressing my body against the cliff face. Melissa was ahead, moving carefully but confidently. “Almost there,” she called back, her voice echoing. “Can you imagine the view from the top?” I tried to smile, but my mouth was dry, my fingers trembling as they clung to the rock. “Yeah,” I managed. “It’ll be worth it.”
We were so close to the summit, maybe an hour away. The air felt thinner, the silence heavier. No birds, no rustling leaves—just our breathing and the occasional clatter of a dislodged stone. I kept thinking about the hiker’s warning, his words looping in my head. One wrong move. I watched Melissa’s every step, her red jacket a lifeline in the gray expanse of rock. “You okay?” I asked, my voice tighter than I meant it to be. She glanced back, her face flushed but smiling. “Stop worrying. We’re nearly there.”
Then it happened. A sharp, startled cry, like a gasp cut off. I looked up just as Melissa’s foot slipped. Her body twisted, her arms flailing for something to grab—a rock, a root, anything. “Mel!” I screamed, lunging forward, my hands outstretched. But it was too late. She fell, her red jacket a sickening blur as she plummeted out of sight. There was a thud, faint but unmistakable, from far below. Then silence, so thick it felt like it was choking me. I called her name, my voice raw, echoing off the cliffs. “Melissa! Mel, answer me!” Nothing. Just that awful, empty quiet.
I froze, my hands still gripping the rock, my mind blank with panic. Was she okay? Could she have survived? My legs shook as I edged toward the ledge, peering over. The drop was brutal—50 meters at least, maybe more, ending in a pile of jagged rocks. I couldn’t see her, just shadows and stone, but the thought of her down there, broken or worse, made my chest tighten until I could barely breathe. “Melissa!” I shouted again, my voice breaking. The silence mocked me, heavy and wrong.
I don’t know how long I stood there, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. My first instinct was to climb down to her, but the path was too narrow, too unstable. One slip, and I’d be no help to anyone. I fumbled for the emergency beacon in my pack, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. I pressed the button, over and over, praying it was working. Then I started back down the way we came, my legs wobbly, every step a fight against the panic clawing at my insides. I kept seeing her fall in my head—the cry, the blur of her jacket, the thud. Had I missed something? Could I have grabbed her? The guilt was like a weight, pressing down harder with every step.
The descent was torture. The trail seemed to stretch on forever, the rocks and scrub tearing at my clothes, my hands scraped raw from gripping roots and ledges. I kept calling her name, half-expecting her to answer, to say it was all a mistake. But the silence followed me, relentless. I thought about our hikes together, the way she’d laugh when we got lost, the way she’d push me to keep going when I wanted to quit. “We’re a team,” she’d always say. Now she was gone, and I was alone on this cursed mountain.
Hours later, I reached a clearing where my phone picked up a faint signal. My hands were still shaking as I dialed emergency services. “My friend fell,” I stammered to the operator, my voice barely holding together. “Federation Peak, near the summit. She fell a long way. Please, you have to help her.” They told me to stay where I was, that a rescue team was on the way. I sank onto a rock, my pack still on, staring at the cliffs above. I kept hoping she was okay, that maybe she’d landed on a ledge, that she was just hurt, waiting for me. But deep down, I knew. The fall was too far, too steep.
Night came, and I set up camp alone, my sleeping bag pulled tight around me. Every sound made me jump—a twig snapping, a distant animal moving in the dark. I kept imagining her voice, calling out, but it was just the mountain, cold and indifferent. I didn’t sleep, couldn’t. My mind was stuck on that moment, her cry, the way she’d vanished over the edge. I should’ve been closer. I should’ve seen the loose rock, warned her, something.
The rescue team arrived at first light on March 24. They were a blur of orange jackets and ropes, their faces serious as they asked me to show them where it happened. I led them back up, my body aching but moving on autopilot. The climb felt different now, haunted. “She was right there,” I said, pointing to the ledge, my voice hollow. “She slipped, and…” I couldn’t finish. They nodded, splitting up to search below, using ropes to descend the cliff face.
Hours later, one of them waved me over. His face was grim, his eyes avoiding mine. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice soft but heavy. “We found her. She didn’t make it.” My knees buckled, and I sank to the ground, the words cutting through me like a knife. They’d found her body at the base of the cliff, broken from the fall. Fifty meters, they said. No one could survive that.
The days after blurred together. The rescue team got me off the mountain, and there were questions, forms, a coroner’s report. They said it was an accident, a loose rock, a moment of bad luck. No one’s fault. But I couldn’t shake the guilt, the what-ifs. What if I’d gone first? What if I’d grabbed her in time? The coroner’s words didn’t erase the nightmares, the ones where I hear her cry and reach for her, my hands closing on nothing.
Melissa was the brave one, the one who pushed us to try harder, go further. We were supposed to stand on that summit together, arms around each other, queens of the mountain. Now, all I see when I close my eyes is that ledge, the blur of her red jacket, and the silence that followed. The mountain took her, and a piece of me went with her.
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