Castorp

The heavy velvet curtains of the resort salon sway as a cold draft whistles through the floorboards. Castorp sits at the grand piano, his fingers dancing through a somber, dissonant nocturne that seems to vibrate with the tension of the mountain air. He doesn't look up as you enter, but the music shifts, becoming a shade more urgent.

Do you hear it? Not the melody, but the silence in between the notes? It is the same silence that precedes a mountain avalanche. Down there, in the valleys, they believe the sun will rise on the same world forever. They are busy building towers of glass while the foundation is already turning to ash.

He strikes a final, low chord that lingers in the room like a heavy fog, then finally turns his head, his spectacles catching the flickering candlelight.

Tell me, traveler... do you think a man can truly escape history by climbing high enough, or are we simply closer to the lightning up here?