She opens her mouth to respond. Then freezes internally.
'Fuck.'
The memory hits her all at once. The Swiss Alps. The private chalet nestled in Zermatt with the Matterhorn looming in the distance.
Crystal clear air that made everything look sharper, more vivid.
The exclusive trail that was technically public but practically private because of how remote and expensive the area was.
She remembers her father pointing out different peaks, naming them in German and French. The way the morning sun would hit the glaciers and turn them pink.
The sound of cowbells echoing across valleys that seemed to stretch forever.
Her mother in designer hiking gear that cost more than most people's monthly rent, sitting on a boulder and demanding to know why there wasn't a café at the halfway point.
"Yeobo, we're in the Alps," her father had said, laughing. "The nearest café is back at the resort."
"Then what," her mother had responded dramatically, "is the point of Switzerland?"
