There once were two climbers who gazed upon a magnificent mountain peak, its snowy cap hidden among clouds, whispered about in awe and fear by travelers far and wide.

The first climber, Liora, eager and impulsive, saw only adventure in the ascent. She packed lightly, barely preparing, eyes locked on the distant peak. With optimism as her only true companion, she began her journey upward.
Each obstacle—unexpected crevasses, sharp cliffs, freezing winds—hit her with surprise. She faced them battered and breathless, improvising with stubborn resolve.
One night, as she shivered beneath a ledge, cuts stinging in the cold, she whispered to the dark,
“Had I known, I might have feared it—but I’m here now. I just hope that’s enough.”

The second climber, Kael, cautious and meticulous, studied the mountain intently from below. He charted every known danger and mapped careful routes. His pack held tools for every contingency.
But as Kael stood at the base, the full weight of the climb bore down on him. Each hazard he foresaw became another anchor chaining him to the earth.
One evening, staring up through the gathering mist, he muttered,
“If I knew a little less… maybe I’d already be halfway there.”
And so he waited—convinced preparation would make him ready, unsure if it ever truly could.

Days passed. Liora continued her turbulent ascent, stumbling often yet never retreating, learning through suffering and persistence. Kael remained below, safely equipped but captive to his anticipation, haunted by imagined falls.

Whether Liora reached the peak or fell short was lost in the clouds. Whether Kael ever began his climb was left behind in the valley.

Which of them was wiser is still asked by those who pass beneath the mountain’s gaze.