The next morning dawned with a covered sky, low clouds brushing against the peaks of the Dolomites. I got up with a determination I hadn't felt in months. The photo of Adrian, with his name and that tempting initial, Adrian R., was stored in my backpack, protected in a plastic bag as if it were a fragile treasure. I didn't know if I was chasing a mirage, but the idea that he had been here, so close, drove me. I couldn't go back to the city with another unanswered question. This time, I was going to look for him wherever the trails took me.

I planned a route that covered the most crowded refuges in the area, starting with those near Lago di Braies and extending to the most popular mountain passes. I armed myself with patience and a vague but precise description: a tall, athletic man in his thirties, with a trimmed beard, intense green eyes, and probably a camera hanging from his neck. At each refuge, I showed the photo to the owners, waiters, and hikers, asking if they had seen someone like that. Most shook their heads, some with curiosity, others with indifference. "Those photographers pass by here all the time," a woman told me at a hostel, shrugging. "They're like ghosts, they come and go."

The first day was an exhausting parade of steep trails and fruitless conversations. I walked until my legs burned, climbing to viewpoints and descending to valleys, with the photo always on my mind. At night, in a crowded refuge, a young boy, a German climber, seemed to hesitate when I showed him the image. "I think I saw someone like that a few days ago, near Tre Cime," he said, frowning. "He had a big camera, was alone, taking pictures at sunset." My heart skipped a beat, but when I asked for more details, he couldn't give me anything concrete. "I don't know, dude, everyone looks a bit alike up here."

The next day, I headed to Tre Cime di Lavaredo, an iconic spot in the Dolomites, with its three majestic peaks dominating the horizon. The trail was full of tourists, but I was looking for something more: a familiar silhouette, a glint of green eyes. I walked in circles, stopping at each viewpoint, checking every face. Nothing. At the end of the day, I sat on a rock, exhausted, watching the sun paint the peaks pink and orange. Frustration was starting to win. What if Adrian had already left? What if that photo was all I had left of him?

Then, in a refuge at the foot of the peaks, I saw another cork on the wall, just like the one from the first day. I approached, almost by reflex, and there it was: another photo, identical in style to the one I carried in my backpack. A lake surrounded by pine trees, the soft light of dawn, a perfect frame. I removed it with trembling fingers and turned it over. Adrian R., written in the same handwriting, and a date from three days ago. Below, a phrase: For those who seek in the mountains.

My breath caught. It wasn't just a photo; it was a message, or at least I wanted to believe it...