William reached the bottom of the run in record time. He skidded to a halt in front of the chalet, kicking up a spray of snow. He unclipped his skis and checked his watch.
Five minutes.
He looked up at the mountain. He couldn’t see the ridge from here, obscured by the tree line. He decided to wait for her before going inside. He wanted to walk in together.
Seven minutes.
He tapped his gloves together to stay warm. The wind was picking up. The birds had stopped singing.
Suddenly, a sound tore through the valley.
It wasn’t a roar. It was a *crack*–sharp and violent, like a gunshot magnified a thousand times. It was followed by a deep, guttural rumble that vibrated in William’s chest.
He froze. His eyes snapped up to the mountain.
High above the tree line, the pristine white face of the ridge seemed to wrinkle. Then, it shattered. A massive slab of snow, acres wide, detached itself from the mountain.
“Victoria?” William whispered.
The slab disintegrated into a white tidal wave, gathering speed, tearing up trees and rocks as it thundered down the exact path he had just skied. The sound became deafening, a locomotive roaring over the earth.
William grabbed his radio. “Victoria! Victoria, move! Get to the side!”
Static.
“VICTORIA!”
The white wall swallowed the track. It swallowed the ridge. It swallowed the world.
And then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped. The rumble faded into a settling hiss. A massive cloud of white powder hung in the air, obscuring the sun.
William stood there, the radio crushed in his hand.
“No,” he choked out. He took a step forward, sinking into the snow. “No, no, no.”
He began to run. He ran toward the wall of debris, his boots slipping, his breath tearing at his throat. He screamed her name, over and over, his voice echoing off the silent, indifferent mountains.
But the mountain didn’t answer. The ridge was gone. The tracks were gone.
Victoria was gone.