The Trio

Proloy walked first, his shoes crunching through the snow. Joba followed close, wrapped in layers, her face red from the wind. Phukon, as always, carried the pack that seemed heavier than it looked.

They had started days ago from the coast. The sound of waves still echoed in their heads, the kind of sound that makes you feel small but alive. The climb had been long, cold, and quiet. No one spoke much; words did not fit the kind of thoughts that come when you are surrounded by endless white.

At night, they stopped under a sky full of stars. Joba once said the stars looked like shells washed up on the edge of the universe. Phukon laughed, but later admitted she was right. Proloy just smiled and said nothing.

When they finally reached the top, there was no big celebration. Just silence. Wind. The kind of peace that does not need music or words. They looked out at the world, blue, wild, endless, and knew it had been worth it.

Not because of what they reached, but because of what they crossed to get there.