The first small mani stones appear along the path. Om Tare. Hacked into the side of the bedrocks, they’re a sign we’re coming up to the highest point now. Almost there. Focus. My feet sag in the sleet. Hail turns into snow, caking the front of my coat. I slide the reins around my bent arm and fold my sleeves over my numb fingers as far as possible. One foot in front of the other, my breath shallows as the raw cold pierces my lungs.
I halt for a moment to turn my back against the gale. Coming up for air, I peer down the path from under my hood. All I see is shadows, moving like a funeral procession into a vast pale white. I blink, my thoughts swirling over the long line of silhouettes that are my companions. Ghosts. I’m walking amidst an ashen haunt of roving spirits, risen from their fun
