I dreamt the snow was made of old ski passes

I was walking through a valley where the snow wasn’t falling — it was unfolding. Like someone had opened a book of tickets, and each page was a flake. I picked one up and it said 'Season 2019' in faded blue ink. My hands were numb but not from cold. From recognition. The mountain knew me. It remembered every time I’d stood at the top and just… stared. And then I woke up to the sound of my own breath, still holding that ticket like it might melt if I let go.