The Climb”
High in the Alps, where the air is thin and silence rules the peaks, lived a young ibex named Lira. She was the smallest in her herd—often last to reach the meadow, last to drink from the spring, and always overlooked when the elders told stories of glory and strength.
But Lira had something the others hadn’t noticed: heart.
One summer, the herd found themselves in trouble. A dry season had swept across the mountain, and the minerals they needed to survive had vanished from the usual rocky cliffs. The only place left with the life-saving salts was the towering wall of the old Cingino Dam. It was steep, slick, and terrifying—a place few dared to approach.
The elders hesitated. The strong ones looked away. But Lira stepped forward, her legs trembling, her chest pounding with both fear and determination.
“I will climb,” she said quietly.
They laughed, not cruelly, but protectively. “You? Little Lira?”
She didn’t answer. She just looked up.
And climbed.
Step by impossible step, she pressed her small hooves into tiny cracks, balancing on ledges no wider than a coin. The wind tugged at her fur, and her heart raced like a drum, but she did not stop. Not because she was the strongest, but because she believed she could not let her herd down.
Higher and higher she went, until finally, her tongue found the rich salt lining the wall. She licked, not for herself, but for them—then turned and began the even more dangerous journey down, carrying strength not in her muscles, but in her spirit.
When she returned, the others watched in silence. Not a sound, not a whisper—until the eldest ibex bowed his head.
“Today,” he said, “the smallest among us became the tallest.”
And from that day on, the herd never doubted the quiet courage of a heart that dares to climb.
