the summit rock from that first real climb was warm in your pocket. not sun-hot, but something else. a retained heat. like the mountain itself remembered the pressure, the strain, the sheer will it took to stand on its highest point. and for a moment, just a breath, that pressure didn't feel like it was crushing me, but holding me. like my own calves humming, a deep ache, not pain, just the memory of a hundred thousand steps, grounding me here, finally, on earth that holds, soft.