By the time our jeep reached Mastuj, dusk had begun settling over the valley. Golden sunlight spilled across the rooftops, bathing the village in a fading glow. The houses, built from wood and stone, seemed almost fused with the mountains themselves, as though generations had shaped them directly from the earth. Thin streams of smoke drifted upward from chimneys, carrying the comforting scents of bread, lentils, and burning firewood. The evening air was crisp and sharp, cold against the skin yet filled with the quiet warmth of lived-in homes.
As we drove through the narrow streets, children paused their games to stare at us. A few offered shy waves while others simply watched in silence, curiosity shining in their wide eyes. One young boy stood frozen with a worn football tucked under his arm, studying us as though strangers passing through Mastuj were stories to be remembered. Around us, the mountains rose silently, immense and watchful, their shadows stretching across the village like patient guardians.
We stopped beside a modest teahouse tucked against the roadside. Its faded Urdu sign hung crooked above the entrance, giving the place a humble charm. The moment we stepped inside, warmth surrounded us. Steam floated from kettles of chai, candlelight flickered softly against wooden walls, and the rich aroma of curry and charcoal filled the room. Beneath it all lingered the faint scent of pine drifting in from outside, creating an atmosphere that felt oddly peaceful.
An older man approached us from behind the counter. He wore a neatly wrapped pakol and carried the weathered face of someone shaped by mountain winters. Though he smiled politely, there was caution hidden behind his expression.
“Traveling far?” he asked in Urdu, his voice calm and measured.
Diljeet nodded. “We’re heading toward Kailash.”
At the mention of the valley, the man’s smile weakened for the briefest moment. His eyes shifted toward the darkening peaks outside before he motioned us toward an empty table.
“You should eat and rest while you can,” he said quietly. “The journey ahead is not an easy one.”
His tone carried something heavier than simple concern, as if the mountains themselves had lent weight to his words.
Soon steaming cups of chai and bowls of hot shorba were placed before us. The heat seeped into our numb hands while the spices filled the air with comfort. Yet despite the warmth, I noticed the villagers speaking in hushed voices, their eyes occasionally drifting toward our table before quickly turning away again.
Peter leaned toward us. “They keep looking over here,” he whispered.
Amit shrugged with a forced grin. “Probably because outsiders rarely show up here.”
But something told me it wasn’t curiosity alone. Ever since we had spoken the name Kailash aloud, the atmosphere inside the teahouse had changed. The room felt heavier somehow, as though an unseen presence had settled quietly among us. Even the creaking floorboards and trembling candle flames seemed unnaturally alive.
After some time, the old man returned carrying another kettle of tea. This time I noticed his hands shaking faintly. He paused beside me, his sharp gray eyes fixed on mine.
“The mountains never forget those who enter them,” he murmured softly.
For a moment, I couldn’t reply. His stare carried no comfort—only the cold certainty of someone who had seen too much. Before I could question him further, he turned away and disappeared into the back room, leaving behind the scent of pine smoke and boiling tea.
Outside, evening had deepened into blue shadow. The peaks stood dark against the fading sky, jagged and unmoving like ancient sentinels. Wind slid down through the valley carrying strange whispers that sounded almost like distant voices.
Peter stared through the fogged-up window. “I thought I saw someone standing up there on the ridge,” he said quietly. “But when I looked again, they were gone.”
Abdul rested a hand on my shoulder. “High altitude messes with your head. It’s nothing.”
Still, unease clung to me. Every shadow between the trees, every flicker of movement along the road, felt deliberate. The mountains no longer seemed like scenery—they felt aware of us.
Trying to lighten the mood, Amit pulled a chocolate bar from his bag. “If the mountains are judging us,” he joked weakly, “hopefully they appreciate good snacks.”
Peter laughed under his breath. “I’d offer them tea too, but I doubt spirits drink chai.”
Only Diljeet remained silent. He sat near the window, staring at the distant peaks with a tense expression.
“We leave before sunrise,” he said finally. “Before snow blocks the pass… before the mountains wake.”
No one questioned him.
Night settled fully over Mastuj soon after. Smoke hovered above the rooftops while the empty streets fell silent beneath the mountains’ shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a lone dog barked into the darkness, its cry echoing eerily through the valley. For an instant, it almost sounded as though the mountains answered back.
Later, we returned to the small inn where we planned to spend the night. I lay awake on a thin mattress, listening to the wind brush against the wooden shutters. Beyond the walls, the road to Kailash twisted deeper into the unknown, hiding secrets older than memory itself.
And as sleep slowly crept over me, one thought remained impossible to escape:
By morning, the mountains would remember us forever.
What we didn’t realize then was that death had already begun following our footsteps, waiting patiently for the moment we crossed too far into the valley’s grasp.
And somewhere in the darkness, the first choice had already been made.
Author’s Note: This chapter was edited with AI assistance for grammar, readability, and flow.45Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeki6JgjwAp
→ Request update
and then Add to home screen.