Somewhere over the French Alps, the plane dips ever so slightly—and there it is. A horizon stretched thin, like the world is holding its breath. Peaks punched through the clouds, lit just enough to show their shape but not their secrets. It’s the kind of view that silences a cabin. No filters, no framing—just altitude and awe. I didn’t take the photo to remember the flight. I took it because the mountains didn’t ask to be seen. They just were. Cold, distant, perfect.