I no longer knew how long I had been climbing. The minutes, the hours, maybe more, had dissolved somewhere between two steps.
The sky, itself, had lost its bearings. Or maybe it had never had any. It was no longer a direction, nor a refuge, nor a promise. Just a blurry expanse, without beginning or end, as if suspended above me without wanting to respond.
And I kept climbing, searching for a shape in that void, without knowing if I was rising toward something… or sinking deeper still.
The fog would not dissipate. It didn't recede, didn't yield anything. On the contrary, it thickened, slowly, insidiously, until it became almost tangible. A strange, clammy, living density, that coiled around me like a tightened throat.
It was heavy, saturated, compact, thick… like a voice one had wanted to scream but had swallowed at the last second. A smothered word. A heavy silence that clung to the skin, to the eyes, to the soul — and from which one could no longer break free.
