mind dying; they’ d have to pry those two from my jaws. They were no family to me. I crossed my arms, and shook in place. I remember when I was a child, they brought me here. There were always people around. People from below, skiers and hikers and lovers and tourists and writers. Good people. They came for the water. For the snow. For the pastries and coffee. Good people want good things. I was a child. I did not know. Would they have believed me? Now? Who would be there? Who would I tell? No one. Someone. Everyone. I’ ll kill this party. It’ s the least I can do.
I turned around. The crawl space vanished in the night. Good. I never wanted to see it again. The light ahead was too bright. Too alluring. It was closer now than ever before. That warmth, which melts the snow and dries the flesh, I could almost feel it now. The cabins, too, steady and insulated against the mountain wind. I hoped they were empty. I hoped it was the off-season.
The snow faded from knee height to shin height to ankle height. Even sooner, the stone pathway was visible. Then, the buildings began to line the sides of the paths. I missed my heels. Boots are loud against the cobbled stone but not loud enough. I was sick of the quiet. The windows of the buildings lead into abysses carefully outlined with silhouettes of tables, shelves, and countertops. It was only the streetlights that had been our guide to salvation. Like a sentry, I darted into and out of any alleyway or intersection, looking for either danger or directions. Every-
16 TEMPO MAGAZINE— SPRING 2025