The silence.
It was heavier now. Deeper.
Grass had begun reclaiming the road, creeping across the path in uneven patches. Small shrubs pushed stubbornly through cracks where motorcycle tires once carved their daily routes. The mountain, it seemed, had been slowly taking everything back.
Rogelio “Roger” Santos walked carefully, his boots sinking slightly into the softened ground. Each step felt heavier than the last—not just from the steep climb, but from something inside him he could not quite name.
A worn backpack hung from his shoulders. Sweat clung to his back, darkening his faded blue shirt. The morning fog wrapped around him like a memory he couldn’t escape, drifting lazily between the trees. Somewhere in the distance, birds called sharply to one another, their voices echoing across the valley like unanswered questions.
Roger stopped.
