Mountain peak with sunburst and clouds

"The path over the col is nothing in daylight," he said, before she could ask. "It was the dark that turned it into a grave." He set the animal down in the straw. It was alive, its legs trembling, its wool stiff with frost. Behind him the peak above the village had already taken the first light, a clean white edge against the sky, while the valley still lay in blue shadow and the smoke from the bakery hung low over the roofs.

Marta knew what that light meant. Her father had told her the old story when she was small: the sun rose behind the mountain every morning and had to climb the whole height of it before it could warm anyone, and the clouds that gathered on the slopes were only the mountain's breath, pushed aside each dawn so the rays could pass. She had never believed him. She believed the sun was simply too stubborn to be stopped.

Tomas poured water into a wooden bowl and watched the lamb drink. "I kept walking towards that peak," he said quietly. "Every time the cloud came down I looked for the light on the ridge and walked until I found it again."

Outside, the first ray broke over the shoulder of the rock and laid a gold line across the frosted gate. Marta unfolded her arms.