In winter dusk, I found antlers leaning by a doorway and a rasp humming like wind. The carver lifted a Tschäggättä mask, both fearsome and playful, explaining festivals that chase darkness. Leaving, snow squeaked to the station, my breath already practicing wild roars.
Thread crossed linen like footbridges over ravines, each stitch measured to a heartbeat and a distant bell. She told of summers selling at fairs and winters teaching grandchildren. The bus connected to rail; my notebook filled with patterns shaped by alpine silhouettes.
Steam rose with the first train while copper cauldrons rolled their mist across rafters. Ladles traced circles like timetables, predictable yet soulful. After tastes of young wheels, I caught the branch line, carrying aromas that turned the carriage into a friendly pasture.