The Last Footprint

Daniel had hunted these mountains for nearly fifteen years, long enough to know that snow had a memory. It held every mistake, every triumph, every careless step. It could preserve a trail for hours or erase an entire day within minutes, depending on the mood of the sky. By the time he reached the frozen ridge, the daylight had already begun to surrender to the gray hush of evening. Thick clouds rolled across the horizon like an invading army, swallowing the last strips of pale sunlight. Beneath his boots, the snow groaned softly with each measured step, preserving every impression he left behind. There would be no hiding where he had walked. The mountain was writing his story beneath him.

He stopped when he noticed the tracks.

They crossed the narrow trail at an angle, fresh enough that their sharp edges had...