The pink glove lay on the ground, almost covered

The pink glove lay on the ground, almost covered. Flurries of snowfall fell slowly, almost reluctantly, for fear of damaging the fabric. Such a beautiful object the woods had never seen. It lay motionless, asking for eyes to hold their gaze on it and yet seemed almost like it long for anonymity. It was a fish out of water. A deer in the headlights. The pink glove did not belong in the forest, but here it was nonetheless.

The hikers scrambled up the last few feet of the rock face before confronting the artifact. As their ropes swung over the ledge, their shoes pushed up on increasingly unstable rock, and their anxieties of falling quelled, their line of sight fell on this single, pink glove.

It held a weighty air around it. Begging to be approached, and wanting to be left alone, left behind by whoever owned it once before.

If it wasn't for the snow and the the chance of frostbite growing stronger by the minute, the hikers would have investigated a bit more. Probed around the area a bit. Sought answers to the mystery of the glove. But instead, they set up camp. They walked a few kilometers away, pitched a tent, and stoked a fire. But, like a siren song, the image of the pink glove blazed in their minds. They couldn't stop thinking of it. No matter the cold, no matter the trekking distance needed to turn back, they had to try on that lonely, pink glove.