There once was a pilgrim who had heard of a village high in the Alps where, supposedly, you could find everything.
The heartiest supper. The oldest schnapps. And, so they whispered down in the valley, a treasure the mountain farmers had guarded for generations.
So he climbed. Across alpine meadows, past wayside shrines, until the moon stood above the peaks.
Wooden chalets with geraniums in the windows.
An onion dome pointing at the sky.
A stream babbling beneath a stone bridge.
Good evening, thought the pilgrim. This must be the place.
The inn was closed. A chalkboard by the door said: Closed today. Underneath, in smaller letters: Tomorrow too.
The church door was shut. The bells had already rung and had no intention of doing it again just for him.
On one of the roofs, a small black box blinked blue. A farmer had put it there so the children could do their homework. And so grandfather could check the weather app.
He found no treasure. Only a dog, who looked at him briefly and decided it was none of its business.
And slowly, the pilgrim understood.
Not every mountain guards a treasure.
Most of them only have a hut.
And the hut is closed today.
This is no treasure vault of the Alps. No secret of the mountain farmers. No hidden gem for tourists.
It is a village going to sleep.
Nothing more.
So, Wanderer —
There is no treasure up here.
No supper.
No secret behind the onion dome.
There is nothing. There never was.
Go home, pilgrim.
And the village, at last, fell asleep.