It happened on a quiet morning, when fog still clung to the mountains and the air smelled of pine and cold stone. Sergey had walked this path countless times — he loved the wilderness, the wind whispering through the cliffs, the distant scream of an eagle high above. But this day felt different. The silence was too deep, too oppressive, as though nature itself held its breath.
Step by step, he climbed higher. The ground beneath his boots began to loosen — a small stone rolled away, then another. Sergey shifted his weight — and in the next moment, the earth gave out beneath him. The world turned upside down. He plummeted. A jagged rock flashed past, pain exploded in his shoulder — and then, by some miracle, his hands found purchase.
Roots. Thick, gnarled tree roots clinging to the cliff face.
Below him lay an abyss of empty air and jagged stone dozens of meters down. The wind tore at his clothes, trying to drag him toward the void. His fingers bled under the strain; his arms shook uncontrollably. He tried to shout, but his voice was weak, swallowed by the roar of the gorge. No reply. Only the echo of his breath.
Time lost all meaning. Seconds stretched into eternities. The roots groaned under his weight; dirt trickled down into nothingness. Every heartbeat was a struggle. His mind flooded with flashes — home, his daughter’s laughter, a life he couldn’t yet abandon. Somewhere deep inside, one desperate thought repeated: Don’t let go.
