The Golden Myth
The map was a lie. It said the pass was three miles east, but the wind had eaten the trail, and the white world had swallowed the landmarks. I stood on the ridge, my boots sinking into snow that felt like cold ash. Below me, the valley was a chasm of gray silence. My radio was dead, a broken brick of plastic in my pocket. The battery had died at dusk, or perhaps the storm had killed it. It did...
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