The text arrived just after sunrise—ordinary in tone, devastating in hindsight.
Sarah Turner stood at her kitchen sink, clutching a cold mug of coffee, when her phone buzzed. The name on the screen made her smile: Amelia.
Off I go. Mountains are calling. Weather’s perfect. Talk Sunday night.
Sarah typed back, “Be careful. Love you.”
It was the last message she would ever receive from her daughter.
Amy, twenty-four, a freelance photographer, lived for the wilderness. Mountains weren’t an escape—they were home. She wasn’t reckless. She planned obsessively: checklists, maps, backup batteries, even backup plans. Every detail mattered.
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