The white peaks are unforgiving.

Many died trying to prove that wrong. Others still have attempted to claim our lands. Animals traverse it, searching for new ground to nest on.

We have been ruthless to those who threaten us.

I look over the pier, bundled in layers of layers of fabric. Tightly woven enough to move, but thick enough to rebuff the cold.

And it is very cold.

Both our spirits and our traditions. Our demeanour seemingly intertwined into our bodies by the chilling environment we are perpetually exposed to.

But there is one spot of resonance that thaws my soul.

“Papa, are you okay?”

I look down at my daughter. Tall as she is, my towering stature looms over her.

“Yes.”

She smiles, and joins my silent solitude as our gazes roam the sparse lands before us.

She may never know this, as I lack the courage to be truthful enough to tell her,

but in an empty barren world of cold,

my daughter is the one thing

that keeps my mind

and my heart

warm.