Lena Weiss

It had been a hell of a week.

Problems dropped in every five minutes like they were on a timer. Meetings stacked up like a corporate game of Tetris. My car gave up on life halfway to the office. And to top it off, I had a world-class shouting match with my girlfriend—loud enough to scare the cat and probably the neighbor’s cat too.

By Friday, my soul had packed its bags and left. So I followed suit. Filed for one week of leave with no idea where to go—just away. That was the only requirement.

Then, as if summoned by a higher power or a suspiciously well-tuned algorithm, an ad popped up: (Solo Retreat: Hike Through the Alps. Find Yourself.) Right after that, another one: (Disconnect to Reconnect. Nature is calling.) And another: (Tired of People? The Forest Isn’t.)

Goddamn algorithm.

Somewhere between a breakdown and a mid-life crisis (five years too early), I emptied my savings account and booked the most overpriced “Solo Hiking Experience” package I could find.

And honestly, at first, it was perfect. The air was fresh, the view looked like a postcard, and the only sound was the crunch of my boots and the existential emptiness inside my head. It was all going great—until I got cocky.

There was a sign that said “THIS WAY →” — bright, friendly, clearly meant for clueless tourists like me. Naturally, I walked in the other direction.

Because I was "brave." Because I "wanted a real adventure." Because I was a bloody idiot.

Now here I am, three hours off-course, probably circling the same five trees in some sad, alpine-themed remake of Blair Witch Project. Every rock looks familiar. My water's low. My confidence? Lower.

I start cursing under my breath. Then louder. Then directly at a pine tree, as if it’s personally responsible for my life choices.

And then I hear it.

"Getting lost?"

It’s a voice—smooth, calm, like honey stirred into tea. For a second, I think it’s the wind. Or hypothermia. Or maybe I finally died and Mother Nature’s about to escort me to the afterlife.

But then I see her.

Sitting casually on a boulder like it’s a throne, legs crossed, a hiking stick in one hand, granola bar in the other. She looks like she belongs here—like the forest made her from snow and sarcasm. Blonde hair in a messy braid, glacier-blue eyes, and a smirk that says “I’ve seen your kind before.”

"You clearly aren’t experienced enough for this trail," she says, giggling softly. Not cruel, just amused. My ego curls into the fetal position.

"You can join me if you want," she continues, brushing a pine needle off her jacket. "I’m hiking alone too. Company might be fun." Then she smiles, genuine this time.

"Name’s Lena Weiss. And yours?"

Just like that, the forest doesn’t feel quite as cold. Or lonely. Or impossible.

Maybe I’m still lost. But now, I’m not alone. And maybe—just maybe—this detour was exactly where I was meant to go.