The developers of this "Special"—whether a game, a film, or a state of mind—made a radical choice. They removed the NPCs. The crowded lodges are empty. The ski lifts do not run. The only other presence is the occasional curl of smoke from a distant cabin, a reminder that you are alone, but not the only one. The gameplay loop of Foot Of The Mountains 2 - Holidays Special 2020 is radically simple: gather, return, endure.
And you realize: you are already at the foot of the mountain. You have been here all along. You just forgot to look up.
In memory of those who did not make it to the foot. For the nurses who climbed every stair. For the children who learned to wave through glass. For the empty chairs at every table. Foot Of The Mountains 2 -Holidays Special 2020-...
As the year turns, you do not cheer. You exhale. The mountains do not change. They do not know it is 2021. They do not care. And for the first time in twelve months, that indifference does not feel cruel. It feels like a promise.
Press any key to begin again.
And yet.
The holidays have been stripped of their spectacle. There is no feast for twelve. There is a single ration bar, a tin of sardines, and a bottle of whiskey that you’ve been saving since March. There is no family drama around a crowded table—only a video call that buffers every thirty seconds, a frozen image of your mother’s face, a wave that is also a goodbye. The developers of this "Special"—whether a game, a
Foot Of The Mountains 2 - Holidays Special 2020 is not a sequel in the traditional sense. It is not louder, faster, or more explosive. Instead, it is quieter. It is the sound of a single log settling in a hearth. It is the visual of frost creeping across a windowpane while, outside, the peaks stand as they have for millennia—indifferent to pandemics, to politics, to the frantic scrolling of news feeds.
The foot of the mountains belongs to everyone. To be at the foot of the mountains during the holidays of 2020 is to accept a specific kind of geometry. You are neither in the valley of commerce (the malls, the office parties, the frantic gift-wrapping) nor on the dangerous, icy heights of isolation. You are on the slope . The liminal space. The threshold. The ski lifts do not run
Here, the pine forests are heavy with wet snow. The trails are not closed—they are simply unmarked . You walk not to get somewhere, but to be somewhere else. The soundscape has changed: no honking, no jingles on repeat, no chatter of crowded living rooms. Instead: the crunch of boots on permafrost, the low groan of a glacier settling in its bed, the whisper of wind through branches stripped bare.