A rope we re-spliced after the season

Spent the morning in the gear room replacing a worn splice on the old half-rope, the one that's done maybe forty trips up the east face. There's a quiet satisfaction in coaxing the sheath back over the core and feeling it tighten under your fingers. But I kept noticing the ridge line through the window, all familiar and blue, and it looked different today — like a place I know suddenly holding its breath. Maybe that's just the late season talking.