Morning in the Deep Mountains
Introduction
At five in the morning, the mist in the mountains had not yet dispersed. I pushed open the door of the wooden cabin, and cold air rushed in like a tide, carrying the scent of pine needles and dew.
A few bird calls came from afar, so ethereal they did not seem to belong to this world. Standing on the wooden steps with hot tea in hand, I watched the mist drift among the treetops like a boneless river.
Body
The sun slowly rose from behind the ridge, and the first rays of light pierced through the mist, dyeing the entire valley a pale gold. This kind of light cannot be seen in the city — it is too clean, without the reflection of glass walls, without the pollution of billboards.
I have been here for three days. No internet, no signal, only me and this mountain. The initial unease has vanished, replaced by a long-lost clarity.
I have come to believe that people need to occasionally detach themselves from the noise and recalibrate their senses. City life makes us numb — to light, to sound, to scent, to time. Only by returning to the rhythm of nature can we hear ourselves again.
When I descended the mountain, I left the tea canister in the cabin. Perhaps I will return, perhaps not. But that morning will remain in memory, like a beam of clean light.