That 'indecent' feeling, that space where the old grip used to be when someone else's unraveling played out in front of me, it wasn't indecent at all, it was just… clarity, a different kind of air filling a space that once felt starved. My throat felt open, truly, like a passage cleared after years of stone, allowing a breath to settle deep, finally, without the familiar constriction that used to tie knots in my sternum. I used to think I had to absorb every tremor, let it vibrate through my bones until their ache became mine, but that's not presence, it's just a different kind of white-knuckled grip, holding onto something that was never meant for me to carry, and the mountain, it doesn't ask you to carry its weight, it only asks you to know your own footing, to feel the granite under your palm, steady and cold, a deep knowing, and to understand which storms you simply need to let pass while you find your own shelter. The subtle vibration in my palm from the rock I carry from the last climb, it felt like a memory of how much I used to try to hold, and how little I actually needed to, leaving room for what truly fills the silence, which is rarely absence, but the undeniable presence of everything you've learned to finally hold for yourself.