The trail winds its way through the dark icy wasteland, behind the mountains on the horizon the sun lurks.

The trail winds its way through the dark icy wilderness – behind the mountains on the horizon the sun lurks, it is freezing cold, 40 degrees below zero.
 In an endless white landscape, a lonely trail stretches softly through the frozen silence, like an invisible hand that has drawn its way across the icy wasteland. The snow lies untouched around it, icy and crystal clear, where every snowflake is frozen in time.
 The mountains on the horizon rest beneath a pastel-colored sky, where the glowing light of the dark hours shimmers like a fragile illusion of warmth. The sun lurks behind the hills, but it never fully rises – it leaves only its faint pink and purple hue across the ice, a final greeting before night takes over again.
 The cold is absolute. 40 degrees below zero presses the silence deeper, making the air crisp and clear, as if the world has held its breath. The track in the snow is the only sign of movement, a silent witness of someone who has passed – perhaps on their way to the mountains, perhaps on their way home.
 In this desolate winter landscape, everything is timeless. Only the trail tells a story, before the wind erases it and leaves the plateau as untouched as before.