I turned the page.
The next page wasn't dated.
It wasn't even written in the same ink.
Some of the entries were darker than others, as though they had been added months—or years—apart.
The handwriting changed almost imperceptibly from one paragraph to the next.
Not because Damien had become a different man.
Because time had slowly stolen pieces of the one who'd begun writing.
There is something I need you to understand.
If I've disappeared... don't waste time believing I ran.
I have spent fifteen years running.
Nothing outruns the mountain.
I swallowed.
Fifteen years.
The same amount of time since my father had vanished.
The same amount of time since Damien's photograph should have become impossible.
People think the mountain kills everyone it takes.
That would be kinder.
