The valley turns blue at four in the afternoon. By five, the only light in the village comes from windows, and the only sound is snow being moved by hand.
Dinner is at a single long table. There is no menu — there is what the mountain gave this week: barley, smoked char, butter that tastes faintly of hay.
What the cold teaches
Altitude edits a meal the way a deadline edits prose. Everything unnecessary falls away, and what remains is warm, exact, and almost embarrassingly satisfying.