The air cuts like knives. Every breath feels stolen. Not enough. Never enough.

My legs shake. I can’t feel my fingers. I don’t know if they’re still holding the axe or if I’m dragging dead weight.

The summit looks close, but it might as well be the moon.

The ground keeps tilting.

My boots scrape rock, slip, catch, slip again.

Each step is a command I don’t know how to give.

The cold isn’t outside anymore. It’s inside my chest, inside my skull. It slows everything. Thoughts. Muscles. Memory.

I fall to one knee.

I hear a sound — maybe my own throat — some broken noise clawing out.

I shove myself up. Move forward. Another step. Another theft of air.

My vision tunnels. The world shrinks.

One boot.

Then the other.

A hand clawing ice.

A breath that doesn’t fill my lungs.

Nothing matters now. Not the mountain. Not me. Only this:

Move.

When I stumble onto the summit, I don’t feel anything.

No glory. No joy.

Just the brutal, shaking fact that I am still breathing.

For now.