In a mountain refuge high above the world, I gazed with both apprehension and excitement at the ridge we were to cross that day—a spine of rock cloaked in fresh snow. We were sharing a hearty breakfast, a lively group gathered in warmth and anticipation. I couldn’t recall how I had arrived there.

Someone told me that the night before, they had wrapped me in a tube to lower me down the rocks, because I could no longer go on. Perhaps frostbite. I remembered nothing. Then, from a doorway, a young woman appeared. She asked us gently, with a touch of shyness, to settle the bill for the food and drink we had consumed. I was surprised no one had done so already. I reached for my wallet and, when I opened it, it was overflowing with large banknotes. I had more money than I imagined, and without hesitation, I pressed one of those bills into her hand. The others followed my lead.

She was beautiful—small, with long chestnut hair and eyes of a vivid green, almond-shaped yet rounder, fuller than one usually sees. Her lashes framed them like delicate branches. There was a timidity in her gestures, but it was not shyness—it was beauty itself that made her move with such cautious grace. She disappeared for a moment back inside, while we turned again to study the snowy ridge and the gathering black clouds above it.

I wasn’t worried. I felt an eagerness to set off toward the summit. And yet, within me, a secret longing burned: to remain there, in the refuge, with her—the girl with the water-green eyes. That longing led me to ask again about what had happened the previous day, as though seeking an excuse to linger in the warmth of the hut. When she emerged once more, I seized the chance to approach her with a clumsy movement that brought us suddenly close, almost face to face. I opened a notebook filled with rough, coffee-colored pages covered in sketches, designs, and words. She looked at it with wonder. I asked for her phone number. I wanted to see her again. Without hesitation, she wrote it down on the open page. 

From that moment on, I struggled to remain asleep, hoping to decide—within the fragile territory of dream—to stay behind at the refuge, in her warmth, to know her more deeply.

Dream, 2024