Tintín insists on taking pictures. Like he’s capturing memories of a trip that he’s comin’ back from. I wonder who these pictures are for. For us? I’ll never see them. Maybe they’re for our families. Or for other people who are remembering us now, looking at pictures of us that were taken in the past. And when they look at them, we’ll live again in their imaginations. Because they’ll ask themselves the same questions we’re asking. “What happened to them?” What happened to us? Who were we on the mountain?

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