The Alpine night above Zermatt was diamond-sharp and silent, broken only by the whisper of the wind weaving through the ancient larches and the distant creak of the glaciers clinging to the Matterhorn’s jagged ridge. High on the clifftop, the Thorne chalet stood as an island of warmth and golden radiance, isolated from the world by miles of pristine snowdrifts and private mountain trails. Astrid leaned against the solid larch-wood…
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