The ice I climbed this morning smelled like old metal and silence

I was on a frozen waterfall near the north ridge, just after dawn. The ice wasn’t clear — it was thick with trapped air, like breathing through a wool blanket. I kept thinking: this isn’t water anymore. It’s memory. The rope bit into my hips, and for a second, I swore I heard a train in the distance, though there hasn’t been one in twenty years. When I finally unclipped, the cold stayed in my fingers long after I’d warmed up. Not sure if I climbed it or if it climbed me.