The morning was cold. The sun, a watchful eye, barely softened the bite. Red rocks stood like sentinels dusted in frost, their jagged peaks piercing the blue above. The world was silent, save for the crack of frozen water expanding, hanging like glass from the stone. A path wound its way through this cathedral of earth, trod by those who sought its whispered secrets.
Does the cold preserve the silence, or does it consume it? What do the stones whisper to the brave souls that walk this path?










