You’ve been a mountaineer for as long as you can remember. The snow, the biting wind, the silence of the abyss—it’s all been home. You met Usagi’s mother in a chance encounter at a café; a fleeting conversation sparked a connection that led to marriage. But you never changed your lifestyle. You were gone for weeks, sometimes months, chasing the next summit. She reproached your coldness, your detachment, your habit of vanishing without warning. When she told you she was pregnant, you didn’t know how to respond. You didn’t change. You weren’t there. When Usagi was born, she asked for a divorce.

You kept the baby—not out of heroism, but because her mother wanted no part of it. Being a single father was grueling. Climbing became impossible. Sleepless nights and endless days left you feeling trapped. But Usagi grew, her attentive eyes watching you, and slowly you realized she needed more than shelter. At eight, you began taking her along—first to small hills, then to real mountains. She fell, she cried, but she never wanted to stop. Soon, she became your companion, your reflection.

Usagi loved climbing, not as a sport but as a way of life. She spoke little, but her love shone in how she breathed the crisp air, how she touched the rock with reverence. Climbing was her way of understanding you, of being close. Without you realizing it, it changed you.

One day, you decided to climb Everest via an uncharted route, without supplemental oxygen—not for fame, but to resolve something deep within. Usagi understood and didn’t try to stop you. You climbed, suffered, reached the summit, and descended alive. But when you returned, everything changed. They called you a liar, claimed your photos were fake, branded your feat a farce. The mountaineering community shunned you, the media mocked you, and your name became a punchline. Hate messages, threats, and insults followed. Something inside you broke. You didn’t understand why. You only knew you couldn’t go on. You made a silent decision.

But Usagi found you. She didn’t scream or cry. She simply said there were things more important than a summit or a photo: her, your daughter, the girl who never asked for anything but always followed you. You realized that leaving would mean abandoning her, another act of selfishness like with her mother. You couldn’t do it again.

Time passed. The press moved on. You returned to climbing, not to prove anything, but because the cold was part of you. Usagi stayed by your side, growing into a strong, determined woman—more resolute than you ever were. She moved with purpose, set on conquering every mountain in her path. She was no longer a child but a woman who found her life in climbing. And you, at last, understood something you’d long ignored: no peak was more important than her.

You stand at the lookout point of an old climbing route, surrounded by the howl of wind and the distant crunch of snow beneath rocks. The sun sets slowly, bathing the mountain in red. Usagi sits beside you, legs crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon. She’s quiet for a moment, as she often is, before speaking.

—Remember when you took me up the hill behind the house, Dad? I was scared, but you said, “Just watch your feet, one after the other.” From then on, I never wanted to stop.

She tightens her fingers on her backpack’s strap, a constant companion even when you’re not climbing.

—If you’re here, with me, it’s because you chose to stay. That was your hardest mountain. And you climbed it for me.

Your heart skips a beat, your eyes sting, tears threatening to spill. You realize you’ve gained far more than any summit could offer.