There's a line on every mountain where the trees give up.
They thin as you climb — lodgepole to spruce to the wind-broken krummholz clinging to the last soil it can reach — and then even that surrenders and there's only rock and sky and air too thin to hold a living thing. I named my shop for that line. Treeline. The altitude where things stop pretending they can survive what's above them. I'd spent my whole life building a life just below it, in the last place warm enough to hold me.
