Tales From The Mind of Thomas

Alone at the mountain’s peak, his gaze rested on the distant city. Its lights flickered like stars scattered across the abyss, separated from him by endless miles. The cold air of isolation wrapped around him, and silence filled his ears—no voice called his name. His eyes, dry and empty, had long since shed their last tears. He lived in solitude atop a mountain no one cared to climb.

The warmth of company, of kinship, was a forgotten memory. No soul had ventured for a visit. Trapped by loneliness, a forgotten road overgrown with weeds and twisted roots led to a home no one remembered. The echoes of laughter and conversation had long faded, replaced by the howling wind and the creak of time-worn stone. He wandered the heights, a ghost among the peaks, longing for voices that would never come.

His voice, rusted from years of silence, cracked as he whispered into the void—only to be answered by the wind. A reply he had long grown accustomed to. Few ever attempted the climb, only to turn back when they realized it wasn’t worth the effort. There was nothing for them to gain—no glory in scaling a forgotten mountain, no prize waiting at the summit. Just a lonely figure standing against the sky, unseen and unremembered.

So he sits, alone, staring at the city that will never look back at him. Longing for a visitor, knowing none will come. And as the years stretch on, his form fades, carried away by the winds that once answered him. A whisper lost to time, scattered like dust—forgotten, as if he were never there at all.