This is not a story of Shoes. Or snow. Or mountains. To be honest, it is no story at all.

He was no writer.

He just liked to remember with the precision and objectivity of wartime journalism. Which, in the light of good literature, was the most insipid and ordinary of writings.

He had a bad reputation for abrupt endings. Meaningless prose that served no purpose than to prove how futile written words could be.

This is not a story but mere ramblings on the wind. Which, if not for the presence of two humans on that distant mountain, could have easily been forgotten by now.

The harsh sun was at their faces as morning snow started to thaw, he looked at his shoes and she looked at her hands as they both gasped for breath. She peeled off her gloves, exposing a skin that folded at all the wrong places.

She said she was getting old. Too old for mountains.

He denied clumsily.

She blushed. For one fleeting second, she felt young again.

They both hugged. They stood there for a while, looking at nothing in particular. Shared together in a terrifying quiet. No words were spoken for a while.

At 4,300 meters he was happy to be with her. He kissed her forehead. What was supposed to be warm and moist like most kisses do, with his stiff chapped lips felt different.

“I’m glad you came mom,” he finally said with a big smile across his face.