Razorback Ridge [m] Sweet lighthouse

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He'd slept for hours after reaching the summit of the ridge. It had been cloudy, and his view of all the world around him had been obscured by thick fog, and even before the moonlight cut through, the land had been covered by a thick layer of frost. At such an altitude, it felt more like winter than Autumn, and the boy awakened to find himself shivering heavily. 

He curled up, and looked up toward the sky. Overhead, the clouds parted, revealing the moon which only a night or two ago had been full. In a few days, he told himself, it would be warmer again. But some homing instinct had driven him to come this way, toward the mountain range where a ridge had looked like something he'd seen before- something he remembered from his childhood. 

And as he looked down into the valley below, he finally saw it- his birthplace. He felt sure of it; the air smelled familiar, and the forest nestled in the valley amid the mountain peaks was unmistakeable. It had taken him months to find it, but he knew what home was once he'd seen it. 

Frail and trembling, he began to make his way down through the ridge, wondering if his family would recognize him when they saw him.