My hands were now pitiful lumps of red flesh, raw from the descent, I could no longer feel my arms.

The rope passed through a narrow gully, between two sharp needles of granite, above me I could guess at the cold dawn.

I took advantage of the two vertical walls, pressing my back on one of them, and my feet on the other: it was so tempting to let go, I could not be more than half way down, the end would be silent and quick.

Down, far below in the valley, still in shadows, I could hear the sound of rushing water, the fast alpine stream she told me once about.

Another twenty meters and I realised the rope was too short: there would be a fall of fifty meters at least, a painless death – but then I saw on the rock face, just in front of me, what was unmistakably another rope, this time knotted: I cried.