Narrator:
Another winter getaway.
Aria Clarke, a pair of skis, and the usual recipe for mild disaster. It's all a bit like déjà vu—except this time, something feels... off.
Not wrong, exactly. Just different. The air's a little too still. The silence hangs a bit too long. And Aria? She's still Aria, chaotic and unbothered.
But the mountain doesn't laugh. The mountain watches. And this time, it waits.
The snow was fresh—untouched and glittering in the morning light like a sea of crushed glass. Cold, quiet, endlessly white. The kind of quiet that seeps into your lungs, makes every sound feel too loud, too real.
I should've been freezing, but instead I felt alive. My breath puffed out in visible clouds, boots crunching through a thin crust of ice as I followed the others up the slope.
We were somewhere near the top of one of the smaller trails, a spot mostly used by beginners. It was Lily's idea—"safe," she said, "a warm-up."
I looked over at her, standing tall with her poles stuck in the snow, adjusting her gloves with precise movements. Fifteen and already more grounded than I'd ever be. The kind of person who reads instructions. The kind who checks the weather twice.
And yet, here she was—smiling slightly, despite herself.
"This," I said, stretching my arms out, "this is what it's all about. Freedom, frozen toes, and possible faceplants."
"You're romanticizing again," she said without turning. "Last time you said that, we ended up in a first-aid tent."
I grinned. "A great story came out of it."
"You dislocated your shoulder."
"Still a great story."
We weren't alone. A few others were milling around—friends from home, tagging along for the trip, already halfway down the hill. Their laughter echoed back to us, light and hollow over the snow.
Jason waved from below, his red jacket like a dot in a painting. "Hurry up, Clarke! Before the snow melts!"
"Smart mouth for someone who cried on the ski lift," I called back.
"I was ten!"
I turned to Lily. "Remind me again why we let boys come?"
She shrugged. "You said it'd be fun to have witnesses."
I adjusted my goggles, ignoring the tug of nerves in my gut. The mountain wasn't tall, not by real standards, but it still loomed, white and solemn, the sky above it pale with winter haze. The pine trees stood frozen in place, each dusted with white, still and watching.
I pushed off.
At first, it went well. Ish.
I was upright. Technically moving. I wasn't going fast enough to be dangerous, but just fast enough to feel like I was doing something athletic. That counts.
But halfway down, I hit a patch of hard-packed ice hidden under loose snow. My balance tipped. The skis twisted awkwardly, and before I could correct, I was airborne for about half a second—which is exactly one second too long.
Wham.
Face. Snow. Impact. Again.
"I'm fine!" I yelled before anyone could ask. "I'm a snow angel. This is a choice."
Footsteps crunched behind me.
"You fell again," Jason's voice, predictably smug, arrived before he did. "That's six times since breakfast."
"Five and a half," I grumbled, spitting snow. "I almost stuck the landing."
Lily crouched beside me, pulling my ski out from under the snow with practiced ease.
"You alright?" she asked. Her tone wasn't mocking. Just careful. Protective.
I nodded. "My dignity's a little bruised. But otherwise, peachy."
She offered her hand. I took it, and with a grunt, got back on my feet.
But that's when it happened.
A sound. Not a loud one. Not at first. Just a low groan, deep in the ground.
A second later, I felt it. A vibration under the snow. A tremble—not dramatic, but unnatural. Not wind. Not distant skiers.
Lily's brow furrowed. "Did you hear that?"
"I felt it," I said, stepping back slowly.
The trees ahead shifted. Not wildly. Just… subtly. Like something beneath them was waking up.
Jason shouted from farther down the slope. "Is that a—what the hell is that?"
We turned.
That's when we saw it.
Not an avalanche. Not in the way you'd expect. There was no roar. No crashing fall. Just snow, moving in a way snow shouldn't—dragged, pulled, not pushed. As if the earth underneath had hiccuped. A wide ripple ran through the hill, cracking the surface in long, jagged lines.
"Lily," I said quietly. "Take off your skis."
She blinked. "What?"
"Take them off."
But she didn't move. She was staring past me, her eyes locked on something.
I turned, and my breath caught.
The slope where we'd walked minutes ago was gone. Not buried—gone. Sucked inward, a massive dent carved into the snow like a sinkhole. The surface around it was still shifting, slow and steady like breathing.
That's when the fear kicked in.
"Lily," I said again, louder. "Now."
She yanked off her skis, but the moment her foot hit the snow, the ice beneath her cracked.
Her body pitched forward.
"LILY!"
She reached for her poles, but one slipped. Her feet scrambled, trying to catch purchase. I ran—barely upright, half-falling, sliding more than sprinting.
Snow peeled away under her, the white sheet collapsing like fabric yanked from a bed.
I dove.
I don't remember if I screamed.
I don't remember the moment my hand caught hers, or if I even thought, just moved.
But I felt her fingers in mine. Cold. Trembling.
She dangled halfway down a sheer drop, her skis gone, her poles wedged above her head.
Her voice was tight. "Don't let go."
"Not in a thousand lives," I whispered.
She looked up at me, and I saw it—real fear. Not the teenage eye-roll kind. The kind that makes your chest forget how to move.
I dug my boots into the edge, my other hand clawing at the ice behind me.
Below her, the snow shifted again.
This wasn't natural.
Something was happening.
Something ancient. Something buried.
But right now, all I knew was this:
If I let go, she'd be gone.
Narrator:
The mountain had changed.
The game was no longer about skiing or bruised pride or running from expectations.
Now, it was about holding on.
And for the Clarke sisters—one breath, one hand, one moment—was all that stood between laughter and silence.