The traveler does not remember when he began walking — only that he must continue. The mountains around and ahead have no name, their peaks dissolving into clouds, as if they were never truly mountains at all. And above them, the great vortex swirls, its light bleeding into the snow like a forgotten memory taking form.
He has heard the myths. That those who walk this path eventually vanish, their footsteps erased by the wind, their names lost to time. Not because they perish, but because they become the path itself.
As he nears the glowing threshold, he wonders: Will I step through and emerge as something greater? Or will I fade into the light, one more dream absorbed into the cosmos?