The Mountain Trail

Not a game, but a story fragment—beginning, middle, or end?—submitted as a seed for the Planting round of SeedComp! 2024. 

Licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0.

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Transcription:

“There’s something I want to show you,” you say, and the girl follows.

A flock of sparrows scatters as you ditch your bikes in the overgrown parking lot and check for signs of recent visitors. Looks like no one’s come through here in a long time.

You can’t read the girl’s face, but she trudges up the trail after you in silence. Most of the signs have been knocked down or carried off, but you remember the way.

As you climb higher up the mountain, the air chills. You unpack the warm jacket that she refused to wear this morning, and she pulls it on without complaint.

The trail grows steeper, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. Soon the girl is ahead of you, crunching through the fallen branches and leaves with a determination you’ve never seen.

The foliage gets thinner, and the mountain plateaus right at the edge of a clearing. The dull expanse of earth and stone ahead of you is dotted with pockets of crisp, white snow.

After two years of expired sunscreen and scavenged beach umbrellas, the freshness and coldness of it is even more magical than you remembered. You turn your back on the blighted cityscape below and take in the moment.

“I’ve never seen snow,” says the girl. Her voice catches. These are the first words you've heard her say.