Who invited gravity anyway? On a sugar-dusted incline of the Ceahlau Massif, a posse of chamois treats the mountain like a dive bar floor at closing time, slipping, darting, laughing in hooves and muscle while winter watches, offended. This isn’t the Romania of souvenir racks and polite viewpoints; this is the high-country backstage, where nature drops the act and lets instinct heckle the laws of physics. These animals are alpine punctuation marks, commas on cliffs, exclamation points mid-leap.