Dolomites, 4:48 p.m.
The sun slips behind the peaks and for a few minutes everything turns to rose and gold. And far below, one window glows — the fire already lit, someone who knows the sound of your footsteps.
We spend so much of our lives leaving. Climbing, chasing, proving. And all the while, someone keeps a light burning, trusting you'll find your way back. Maybe that's what love is — not the going, but the returning. Not the height, but the warm room that waited.
In the end, we don't remember how high we climbed. We remember who was still there when we came down.
I've never been here. But somehow, I remember it.
