The slope told me it was safe, then it started whispering

Last night I'm cutting a skin track up a face I've skied a hundred times, and the snowpack starts talking. Not cracking — whispering, like it's telling me secrets about every weak layer I've ever dug. I keep climbing because the line looks clean, and halfway up I realize the surface isn't snow, it's all the decisions I've second-guessed, frozen into a slab. I wake up before it breaks, and I'm honestly not sure if that's relief or just the same hesitation I live with every March.