I’m Freddy Peters.

An entomologist by profession…

And yet, tonight, I’m not just that.

I’m something else.

Something suspended between the world of the living and the breath of the mountain.

The Transapuan trail winds through twisted roots, moss glistening with rain, wet leaves reflecting the moon like small secret mirrors.

Every rustle in the trees, every sigh of the wind, every trembling leaf carries with it a forgotten song, ancient, invisible, that vibrates in the heart.

I walk alone.

But here, solitude doesn’t weigh.

Here, solitude is waiting.

It’s a suspended tremor.

It’s an omen.

The mountain breathes with me.

The mountain listens.

The mountain leads me toward something I can’t yet see… but I feel it’s been waiting for me, invisible, inevitable, forever.

The rocks breathe.

The roots move like sleeping snakes.

The ground pulsates beneath my footsteps.

Every leaf, every drop of dew, every strand of moss vibrates with the memory of time.

The wind carries echoes of ancient footsteps, of forgotten voices, of presences no human eye has ever seen.

Hours of walking.

And then, among the rocks, a flickering light.

A tiny cabin, growing like a sprout among ancient stones.

As if the mountain itself had cultivated it, waiting for me.

The smell of burning wood, of smoke, of hot food envelops me.

Time slows.

The shadows breathe.

Every breath becomes a thread that binds my body to the place, to the time, to the magic.

The mountaineers watch me.

In their eyes shines something ancient, secret: wisdom, memory, curiosity that spans centuries.

They are not just men.

They are keepers of stories.

Mountain spirits dressed in flesh and blood.

Walking souls among us, guarding invisible secrets.

They offer me barley and wild boar soup.

Every bite tastes of earth, roots, fire, tradition.

I listen to their stories, and my mind, usually ready to catalog and observe, slows, bends, merges with the silence.

Every sound, every breath, every small movement is woven into an invisible yet living fabric, suspended between present and memory, between dream and reality.

The CAI group is having fun telling local stories and legends.

“But won’t you tell us a story too?” insists one of the group.
The others agree.

They want me to tell a story full of magic and demonic forces.

The experience of a compatriot of mine comes to mind.
Perhaps they’ll appreciate it if I tell it?

I apologize for my imperfect Italian, but their patient eyes encourage me.

I sit by the fire.

I begin to speak.

The flames flicker.

The shadows breathe on the walls.

Sparks rise and dance like little, crazy stars.

Insects with golden wings emerge from the corners, tracing invisible maps in the air, following the movements of my hands like brushes of light.

Even the mountains outside seem to bend toward us, drawn by the sound of words, their mysterious echoes, their hidden sighs.

The boundaries between me and the world dissolve.

I am no longer Freddy Peters, the solitary entomologist.

I am a narrator suspended between dream and reality.

Weaver of lights, shadows, sighs, and silences.

Every sound, every smell, every spark becomes part of the story.

My skin vibrates from the cold mixed with the heat of the fire.

My hair rises in invisible currents.

My heart beats in unison with the fire and the mountain itself.

When I hesitate to speak, the silence is not empty.

It is filled with invisible presences, luminous echoes, wonder suspended in the air.

The mountain listens.

The refuge responds.

I no longer belong only to myself: I belong to time, to light, to the magic that breathes in every breath, in every spark.

I am Freddy Peters…

But I have become much more: a storyteller, an explorer, a weaver of dreams.

Between the fire and the fog, my story and the magic merge, inseparably, as if they had always been one.