Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim Bradford had come to a decision, and for the first time in years, he felt a quiet certainty. He was going to take a year off. A real year off. Not the piecemeal vacations he had always promised himself but never fully taken. He had saved enough vacation days to last him over a year.

Over the years, between shifts, calls, and the endless cycle of work, he had written down places he wanted to see, experiences he longed to try. A bucket list. Things he always meant to do “someday.” Someday never came. But now, it would.

He had weighed the pros and cons countless times. What about work? What about responsibility? But in the end, he realized he had been postponing himself for too long. The time was now.

On a Friday evening, he invited his closest friends over to his house. Drinks. Snacks. Nothing fancy — just a chance to share his news with the people who had become something like a found family.

His home smelled faintly of brewed coffee, mingling with the crisp chill of winter slipping through a slightly open window. He had poured whiskey into a decanter, stacked glasses neatly, and left out snacks. Comfortable, warm, familiar.

One by one, his friends arrived. Nolan tossed his coat onto the couch with ease. Angela followed, teasing about judging his choice of whiskey. Nyla gave him a skeptical side-eye he had learned to trust. Wade brought his calm, grounding presence. And, of course, Lucy — steady, observant, unwavering.

As laughter and chatter flowed, Tim felt the nervous flutter of anticipation. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“There’s a reason I invited everyone here tonight,” he said, voice calm but firm. Silence fell.

“I’ve decided to take a year off. Travel. See the things I’ve always meant to see. Do the things I’ve kept saying I would but never actually did. I have enough time saved. I’m starting January 1, and I’ll be gone for a full year.” He paused, letting it sink in. “No trips home. This is it. My time.”

Lucy’s brow lifted. “A full year?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ll keep in touch — texts, postcards, photos. But for the most part, I’ll be offline, living the list.”

Nyla leaned back, smirking. “You’re crazy. But… yeah. This is actually kind of awesome.”

Wade’s calm voice added, “You deserve this. Monday I’ll make sure your vacation time is all set. Go enjoy it. We can’t wait to hear all about it.”

Angela’s grin widened. “And your house? Don’t make us come back to a moldy wasteland.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Tim said with a small laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Angela said. “We’ve got it. Mail? Collected. Plants? Watered. Windows? We’ll air it out. By the time you come back, it’ll feel like you never left.”

Nolan smirked. “I call TV remote duty.”

They all laughed. Tim could feel the warmth of their support, the humor and affection making the decision feel real, tangible.

Angela leaned forward. “You’ll have to send more than postcards, though. Photos. Proof you’re still alive.”

“You’ll get both,” Tim said, smiling.

As the evening wore on, the conversation drifted. Drinks poured. Snacks shared. The comfort of their presence was grounding. And when the room emptied except for Lucy, she lingered, her gaze steady.

“You’re crazy,” she said softly. “But I support it. You do so much for everyone. Time to do something for yourself. If you ever need someone to talk to — or just a quick check-in — I’m here.”

Tim hesitated a moment. “Actually… Lucy, can I ask a favor? While I’m gone, could you help with bills and make sure things at the house run smoothly? I’ll set you up with access.”

She smiled, accepting the trust. “Of course. We’ll make sure your house survives a year without you.”

He hugged her briefly, grateful. “Thanks. Really.”

Alone, Tim looked around his home, feeling the quiet weight of leaving it behind for a full year. The adventures ahead, the people supporting him, and the freedom to finally live his bucket list — it all felt real now. And for the first time in a long while, he felt ready.

Chapter Text

Two days before he was set to leave, Tim Bradford was at home, meticulously packing for his trip. He had made lists, packed, unpacked, and repacked. Each item checked off felt like a small promise to himself — a symbol of preparation for a year he had been longing for and avoiding for far too long.

His house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the hum of the refrigerator. A faint smell of clean laundry mixed with the subtle scent of leather and sneakers from his already packed bags. Tim paused, looking around. Even in this cluttered, half-packed state, the house felt like home — warm, lived-in, familiar. He had loved this place, and now he was leaving it for a full year.

Just as he zipped up his last suitcase and double-checked the straps, his phone buzzed.

Lucy: Hey Mr. Soon-to-Be World Traveler. I know you have no plans tonight. Come by my place for a drink.

Tim smiled at the nickname.

Tim: Sure. What time should I be there?

Lucy: 7 pm

Tim: Perfect. See you then.

By 6:55, he was out the door. The crisp winter air tingled his cheeks as he walked down the street, taking a few minutes to steady his thoughts before facing the evening. He thought of the adventures ahead, the year of living his bucket list — and the nervous excitement that came with the unknown.

When he arrived at Lucy’s house, he knocked. She opened the door, smiling, stepping aside.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied, eyes twinkling.

Before he could step fully inside, a chorus of voices yelled, “SURPRISE!”

Tim froze. Mouth open, eyes wide. The living room was packed with familiar faces from the station. Angela grinned, holding a plate of snacks. Nolan leaned against the doorway, smirking. Nyla’s signature raised eyebrow scanned him, amused. Wade’s calm, steady presence grounded the room.

“What… what is this?” Tim finally managed.

“Come on, Bradford,” Angela said, stepping forward. “You didn’t think we’d let you leave without a going-away party, did you?”

Tim shook his head, laughing. “Oh… wow. Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

He moved through the room, hugging everyone. Each hug grounded him in the reality of this support, reminding him how deeply connected he was to these people.

The party began in earnest. Drinks poured. Snacks passed around. Laughter filled the room. Conversations buzzed — teasing remarks about his packing habits, playful bets on which bucket list item would scare him the most, jokes about whether he had a survival kit for every country.

As the night wore on, Tim came up with a plan for staying connected. “I am going to create a group chat with you all,” he said, settling back with a glass of whiskey. “Photos, check-ins, little updates… you can pop in anytime. If I don’t answer for a few days, don’t panic. I’ll mostly be offline, but I’ll let you know when I can connect.”

“That’s a great idea,” Nolan said.

“Absolutely,” Nyla agreed. “We can live vicariously through your adventures without the risk of travel insurance fraud.”

Tim laughed. He typed in the names, creating the group. Moments later, Angela had already renamed it:

TIM AND HIS CRAZY IDEA CHECK-IN CREW

They all laughed. The next half hour was spent teasing him about the name, joking about which photos he would send first, debating whether he’d survive a shark dive or bungee jump. Beneath the humor, though, was warmth — the knowledge they were rooting for him, excited for him, and would support him however he needed.

As the night came to an end, each hugged him goodbye, joking about mail checks, plant watering, and airing out the house.

Lucy lingered.

“Tim, come here,” she said softly. He stepped forward, and they hugged. “Remember, any time you want to talk, or just send a quick ‘I’m okay’ text, I’m here. I’ll check in on the house too, make sure bills are covered… you focus on your adventures. I’ll handle the rest.

Leaving Lucy’s house, Tim felt lighter, braver, and ready. His bucket list awaited, and for the first time, he wasn’t just thinking about it — he was ready to live it.

Chapter Text

The day had finally come. Tim Bradford was leaving everything and everyone behind for a year. Scary? Yes. Exhilarating? Absolutely. He felt a twinge of sadness at leaving his friends, but excitement bubbled under it all — he was finally ready to start his long-awaited adventure.

The night before, he had gone through everything one last time. Travel documents neatly stacked in his backpack, suitcases zipped and labeled, clothes carefully folded. His house, now mostly empty of the items he’d packed, felt both comforting and bittersweet. He paused in the living room, taking in the furniture, the small framed photos on the walls, the tiny imperfections that made the place his home. He’d be away for a full year. A full year.

He ran through his mental checklist: doors locked? Windows closed? Bills sorted? Mail plan in place? Plants watered? Lucy would handle the essentials while he was gone, and the rest of his friends would help check on the house now and then. He smiled at the thought — the little found family that had grown around him over the years. He felt a warmth in his chest that steadied the nervous flutter in his stomach.

When everything was ready, he locked the front door for the last time and stepped back to look at the house. Sunlight filtered through the bare branches of the trees in the yard, casting long shadows on the driveway. “See you in a year,” he whispered softly, a promise to return with stories and memories.

The taxi ride to the airport gave him time to breathe. The city moved around him, the hum of traffic and distant conversations mixing with the soft whir of the cab’s engine. His thoughts shifted between anticipation and nerves. Could he really do this? A whole year of chasing adventures, ticking off bucket list items, exploring places he’d only dreamed of? The unknown stretched ahead like a vast, blank canvas.

By the time he reached the airport, his heart was a mix of excitement and apprehension. He pushed through the sliding doors and froze. Everyone was there. Wade, Nolan, Angela, Nyla, and Lucy — all smiling, teasing, waiting to send him off.

Wade smirked. “Are you surprised?”

“Yes,” Tim laughed, shaking his head. “I thought I said goodbye to everyone at the station yesterday.”

Lucy chuckled. “Well, we weren’t going to let you just get here and leave without us.”

Tim grinned, shaking his head. “Well, if this is what I get when I’m leaving, I expect a welcome-back just like this.”

Angela grinned. “Careful what you wish for. I might just show up with a sign and noisemakers when you get back.”

Tim laughed, hugging her tightly. “Wouldn’t expect anything less. Be safe, take care of yourselves… and give Jack a kiss from uncle Tim.”

He moved quickly through brief hugs and warm words with Nyla, Nolan, and Wade. A few playful jabs about packing, bucket list bravery, and surviving a year without him filled the air.

When it was just him and Lucy, He stepped close, hugging her tightly.

“Please take care of yourself,” he said.

“I will,” she replied, “You’re the one who needs to be more careful.”

“I’ll try, Thank you for coming. For everything.”

We wouldn’t have missed it,” she said, smiling. “I’ll check in on the house, make sure bills are handled, and keep everything running. You focus on your adventures.”

Tim smiled “See you in a year.”

He gave a final wave to the group, their laughter and teasing echoing behind him, then turned toward his gate.

A year of adventure awaited. For the first time in a long while, he felt ready to live it.

Chapter Text

The gate area was crowded, loud in the way only airports could be — rolling suitcases, murmured conversations in half a dozen languages, the distant echo of announcements overhead. Tim stood off to the side, backpack slung over one shoulder, passport tucked safely in his hand. He watched people move with purpose: families wrangling children, couples leaning into each other, solo travelers staring at their phones. Everyone was going somewhere.

So was he.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small notebook, the one he’d been scribbling in for years. He flipped to a blank page and wrote:

Day 1. Sitting at the gate. Heart racing. It’s really happening. All the lists, all the “someday” plans — now it’s now. One year. One chance. No turning back.

The words felt good. Real. Tangible. A promise to himself he was finally keeping. He closed the notebook and slipped it back into the bag, taking a moment to breathe, letting the energy of the crowd and the weight of the year ahead settle around him.

The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, and his stomach flipped. Not fear exactly — something sharper, more electric. This was it. No more planning, no more lists, no more talking about it. He scanned his boarding pass, joined the line, and took a slow breath as it inched forward.

When he stepped onto the plane, the smell hit him first — recycled air, faint coffee, something metallic. Familiar. He’d flown before, plenty of times. But this was different. This wasn’t a weekend trip or a work-related flight. This was the first step into a year he’d never lived before.

He found his seat, stowed his bag, and sat down, hands resting on his thighs. He stared straight ahead for a moment, then glanced out the window. The runway stretched endlessly, planes taxiing, ground crews moving with practiced efficiency. Everything was in motion.

His phone buzzed.

Angela: You better text when you land or I’m assuming you joined a cult.

He smiled despite himself.

Tim: Noted. No cults. Yet.

Another buzz.

Nolan: You alive?

Tim: Still breathing.

Nyla: If you die doing something stupid, I’m deleting the group chat.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, tension easing just a little. He typed a quick message.

Tim: Boarding now. Talk soon.

He put the phone away as the safety briefing began. He listened out of habit, eyes drifting back to the window. His heart started to pound a little harder as the engines roared to life. The plane began to move.

This was the point of no return.

As they taxied down the runway, his thoughts wandered — to the list he’d been adding to for years, scribbled in notebooks, saved in phone notes, half-forgotten and revisited. Things he’d always wanted to do. Places he’d always wanted to see. He’d spent so long telling himself one day.

One day had finally come.

The plane accelerated, speed building rapidly. His body pressed back into the seat as they lifted off the ground, the city falling away beneath them. Tim felt his breath catch, chest tightening — not from fear, but from the sheer weight of it. He was leaving. Really leaving.

As the plane climbed higher, the city turned into a patchwork of lights and shapes, then slowly disappeared into clouds. The hum of the engines settled into a steady rhythm, oddly soothing. He exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

You’re doing this, he thought. You actually did it.

When he opened them again, the seatbelt sign was still on, but the worst of the climb was over. A calm settled over him — the kind that only came when a decision was made and there was nothing left to do but follow through.

He reached for his backpack and pulled out the same small notebook again. The bucket list. Worn at the edges, pages creased and rewritten over the years. He flipped through it slowly, smiling at some of the entries. Paddle boarding. Learning to surf. Northern lights. Things that once felt impossible now felt… close.

He turned to a blank page and wrote:

Day 1. First flight. Nerves. Excited. Don’t turn back.

He stared at the words for a moment, then closed the notebook.

Hours passed in a strange blur — meals served, movies half-watched, the quiet companionship of strangers seated nearby. At one point, he caught his reflection in the darkened window: older than he used to be, lines etched by years of responsibility and stress. But there was something else there now, too. Anticipation. Hope.

He pulled out his phone again, thumb hovering over Lucy’s name.

He hesitated.

Then typed:

Tim: Took off. Guess there’s no backing out now.

The reply came quickly.

Lucy: Proud of you. Be safe. Enjoy every second.

His chest tightened, warmth spreading through him. He leaned his head back, eyes closing again. For the first time in a long while, he let himself just be — suspended between where he’d been and where he was going.

Somewhere over the ocean, the cabin lights dimmed. Most passengers slept. Tim stayed awake, watching the stars outside the window, the endless dark stretching in every direction.

He wasn’t sure what waited for him on the other side of this flight. He didn’t know how the year would change him, or what he’d learn along the way. But for the first time, that uncertainty didn’t scare him.

It thrilled him.

The adventure had begun — not with a destination, but with a decision. And as the plane carried him forward into the unknown, Tim Bradford felt something he hadn’t felt in years.

Free.

Chapter Text

Day 1

The first thing Tim noticed when he stepped off the plane was the cold.

It wasn’t biting or harsh — just clean and sharp, the kind that filled his lungs and made everything feel clearer somehow. The air smelled different too. Crisper. Fresher. Like snow and metal and something unfamiliar he couldn’t quite name.

Norway.

Even reading the word on the signs felt surreal. He followed the flow of passengers through the terminal, backpack secure on his shoulders, passport clutched in his hand. The airport itself was quieter than he expected — efficient, calm, almost peaceful. People moved with purpose but without hurry, voices low, footsteps soft against polished floors.

This was not home.

And somehow, that felt… good.

Passport control was quick. A brief exchange, a stamp, a nod. Just like that, he was officially somewhere new. Tim stepped away from the counter and paused for a moment, letting it sink in. No uniform. No radio. No shift starting or ending. Just him, his bags, and a year stretching out ahead of him.

He collected his luggage and made his way outside, breath fogging instantly as the cold wrapped around him. Snow lined the edges of the sidewalks, piled neatly where it had been cleared away. The sky hung low and pale, the light muted in a way that made everything feel softer, almost unreal.

Tim adjusted the straps of his backpack and smiled to himself.

Okay, he thought. This is happening.

The drive into the city was quiet. Buildings passed by the window — clean lines, muted colors, lights glowing warmly inside. People walked bundled up, scarves wrapped tight, breath visible in the air. It felt orderly, calm, and strangely welcoming.

When he arrived at his hotel, the front desk clerk greeted him with an easy smile and fluent English. Check-in was smooth, efficient. His room key felt heavier in his hand than it should have — another small reminder that this wasn’t just a trip. This was his life for now.

The room itself was simple but comfortable. A large window overlooked a street dusted with snow, the glow of streetlights reflecting softly against the white ground. Tim dropped his bags and stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, taking it all in.

He laughed quietly.

“Well,” he said to the empty room, “you made it.”

Jet lag hovered at the edges of his awareness, but adrenaline kept him upright. He unpacked just enough to feel settled — jacket hung up, boots lined neatly by the door, notebook placed on the small desk by the window. The bucket list stayed tucked safely in his bag for now. No rush. It wasn’t going anywhere.

After a few minutes, curiosity won out.

He pulled on his coat, zipped it up, and stepped back outside.

The streets were calm, almost hushed. Snow crunched softly beneath his boots as he walked, hands tucked into his pockets. He passed small shops with warm lights glowing through the windows, cafés filled with quiet conversations, the smell of something rich and savory drifting into the cold air.

Everything felt different — not overwhelming, just… new.

He stopped at a corner, looking around, committing the moment to memory. This wasn’t a bucket list item being checked off yet. This was something quieter. A beginning.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Angela: If you froze to death already I’m going to be very annoyed.

He snorted softly, typing back as he walked.

Tim: Alive. Cold. Worth it.

Another buzz.

Nyla: Pics or it didn’t happen.

Tim: Soon.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, smiling to himself. The group chat felt like a tether — not pulling him back, just reminding him he wasn’t alone in this. He could wander freely, knowing home was still there, cheering him on.

Eventually, hunger won out. He ducked into a small restaurant, the warmth washing over him instantly. He ordered something he couldn’t pronounce, trusting the menu and the server’s suggestion. When the food arrived, he laughed quietly at himself again.

This is exactly why you came, he thought.

The meal was hearty, comforting — perfect for the cold outside. He ate slowly, watching people come and go, listening to the cadence of a language he didn’t understand but enjoyed hearing. It felt good to be anonymous here. Just another person passing through, no expectations attached.

By the time he stepped back outside, the sky had darkened. Streetlights glowed brighter now, reflecting off the snow in soft halos. Tim pulled his collar up against the cold and walked back toward his hotel, feeling pleasantly tired.

Back in his room, he kicked off his boots and sat on the edge of the bed. The day caught up to him all at once — exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that felt earned, not heavy.

He pulled out his notebook, flipping to the page he’d written on during the flight.

Day 1.

He added a few more words beneath it.

Landed. Cold air. Quiet streets. Feels right.

He closed the notebook and set it aside.

Before turning in, he glanced out the window one more time. Snow continued to fall lightly, drifting through the glow of the streetlights. Somewhere beyond the city, far north, the sky held something he’d dreamed about seeing for years.

Not yet, he told himself.

Soon.

Tim climbed into bed, exhaustion finally winning out. As sleep crept in, one thought settled comfortably in his mind.

He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Day 2

Tim woke slowly, the kind of slow that came from deep, uneven sleep and a body still trying to catch up with itself. For a few seconds, he lay there without opening his eyes, aware only of the weight of the blankets and the unfamiliar stillness around him. The bed was firmer than the one at home. The air felt colder, cleaner somehow. Even the silence sounded different.

Then it clicked.

Tromsø, Norway.

His eyes opened, and a small, almost amused smile crossed his face as he stared up at the ceiling. He wasn’t disoriented so much as gently surprised — like his brain was still impressed he’d actually gone through with this. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen lighting up when he tapped it: 4:17 a.m.

Jet lag, right on schedule.

He considered closing his eyes again, but his body had already made its decision. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching slowly before padding toward the window. Outside, the city was wrapped in darkness, not the heavy kind, but something softer. Snow clung to rooftops and railings, blanketing everything in quiet. Streetlights cast warm amber pools along the roads, their glow reflecting faintly off the snow-packed sidewalks.

It wasn’t empty. Just still.

Tim rested his forehead briefly against the cool glass. Yesterday, someone at the hotel desk had mentioned — casually, like it was common knowledge — that the sun wouldn’t fully rise again until January 15th. Until then, daylight would come in brief visits. A couple of hours at most. Twilight more than morning.

Standing there now, it made sense. The darkness didn’t feel oppressive. It felt intentional. Like the city had learned how to live gently with it.

Back home, mornings started differently. Noise. Movement. The low hum of a world already in motion. He didn’t miss it — not because it was bad, but because right now, this was exactly what he needed. Space. Quiet. A place where no one expected anything from him.

He pulled on a sweatshirt and moved to the small desk by the window, flipping open his notebook. The page was blank except for the date at the top. He wrote a few lines, unpolished and honest.

First night in Tromsø. Quiet feels louder here. Snow everywhere. Jet lag is undefeated.

He paused, then added one more line.

Dark doesn’t feel heavy. Just… calm.

That felt right.

Hunger eventually nudged him out of the room. The hotel lobby was softly lit, warm without being stuffy. A few other early risers sat scattered around — travelers with the same faraway look in their eyes, locals moving with unhurried familiarity. Tim poured himself a cup of strong coffee and put together a simple breakfast, taking his time as he sat near the window.

Outside, the sky shifted almost imperceptibly, deep black giving way to layered grays and the faintest hint of blue. This, he realized, was what passed for morning here.

There was something grounding about it. No rush. No clock dictating the pace of the day. Just light when it decided to show up.

After breakfast, he bundled up carefully — thermal layers, scarf, gloves — before stepping outside. The cold hit immediately, sharp but clean, the kind that woke you up in the best way. He slipped his hands into his coat pockets out of habit, fingers brushing against the small metal teeth tucked there.

Crampons.

Just in case.

He’d been told the sidewalks could turn slick without warning, especially this time of year. He liked being prepared. Old habits didn’t disappear just because he was on vacation.

His boots crunched softly against the snow as he walked, breath puffing out in pale clouds. The streets were quiet but lived-in. A few cars passed slowly. Someone shoveled their walkway. A cyclist rode by, tires cutting clean lines through the snow.

Tim walked without a destination, letting the city reveal itself at its own pace. He crossed a bridge dusted white, stopping midway to watch the dark water below move steadily onward, unfazed by the cold. He passed bakeries just beginning to open, the warm scent of bread drifting out each time a door opened. People nodded politely as they passed him, bundled up and focused, but unhurried.

It felt good to blend in. To be just another figure moving through the morning.

At one point, he pulled out his phone and took a photo — nothing dramatic. Just the street ahead of him, framed by snowbanks and soft, muted light. He didn’t send it anywhere. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, wanting to keep the moment to himself for a while longer.

By late morning — or what counted as it — the fatigue finally caught up with him. He turned back toward the hotel, boots damp, cheeks flushed from the cold. Back in his room, he peeled off layers and sat on the edge of the bed, letting out a quiet laugh.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Lesson learned.”

The room felt different now. Not unfamiliar anymore. Temporary, yes — but in a good way. A place to rest. To reset.

He lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside. Tromsø felt steady. Patient. Like it would be exactly the same whether he slept or stayed awake.

As his eyes finally drifted closed, Tim felt something settle in his chest — not sadness, not longing. Just contentment. He wasn’t lost. He wasn’t escaping.

He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Day 3

By the third day, the city no longer felt unfamiliar.

It wasn’t that Tim knew it well — not really — but the sharp edges had softened. Streets that had felt confusing when he arrived now connected in ways that made sense. The sounds blended together instead of demanding attention. Even the cold felt more manageable, like something he could work with instead of against.

That morning, he woke without an alarm.

The room was dim but comfortable, pale winter light seeping through the narrow window and catching on the snow gathered along the sill. The world outside was quiet but not still — a muffled kind of movement, like the city was stretching awake at the same pace he was.

Tim lay there for a minute, not drifting, not dreading anything. Just… there.

He rolled onto his side, checked the time out of habit, then huffed softly when he realized he didn’t need to. No schedule. No urgency. That alone put him in a better mood than he would’ve expected.

He showered, dressed in layers, and before heading out slipped the small set of crampons into his jacket pocket — just in case the sidewalks were slick later. He’d learned fast that winter here didn’t always look dangerous before it was.

Outside, the air was sharp and clean, the kind that woke him up properly. His breath fogged as he walked, boots crunching lightly against packed snow. He didn’t hesitate at corners anymore. His feet carried him without much thought.

The café down the street felt almost routine now.

Warm air wrapped around him the second he stepped inside, the smell of coffee and baked sugar hitting him like a welcome. A bell chimed softly overhead.

“Morning,” the barista said, already smiling when she saw him. “You’re consistent.”

Tim grinned. “I hear that’s a good thing.”

She laughed as she worked the machine. “Same order?”

“You know it.”

“Still visiting?” she asked, sliding his cup toward him.

“For a bit,” he said easily.

She nodded toward his jacket. “You’re getting better at dressing for it. First day, you looked personally offended by the cold.”

Tim snorted. “I still am. I’m just less obvious about it.”

She glanced out the window, then back at him. “Skies are supposed to clear tonight. Maybe tomorrow too. People are hoping for the lights.”

“The northern lights?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s the plan for tomorrow,” Tim said without hesitation. “I’m looking forward to seeing the lights.”

Her smile widened. “Then I hope you get lucky.”

“Me too.”

He took his coffee to the window seat, letting the warmth seep into his hands. Outside, people moved past bundled in coats and scarves, boots kicking up snow, conversations drifting faintly through the glass. He sipped slowly, unhurried, content to watch the city move without needing to join it immediately.

After breakfast, he walked.

No destination. No list. Just movement.

He followed streets that felt right, detoured when something caught his eye. A quiet side road led to a small park he hadn’t noticed before, benches half-buried in snow, trees dusted white and still. He crossed carefully where the pavement looked slick, fingers brushing his pocket where the crampons sat, unused but reassuring.

The city unfolded in pieces — shop windows fogged from the inside, handwritten signs, laughter spilling briefly from an open door. A dog strained at its leash, tail wagging wildly. Tim smiled at that longer than necessary.

Back at the rental, he shook snow from his coat and spread his notebook across the small table. The pages were filling in uneven ways — café names, streets he liked, little observations scribbled in the margins. He added a few more lines, then tucked the notebook away again.

He headed out once more, this time through a market. A vendor teased him about his accent, corrected his pronunciation with dramatic flair, and insisted he try something hot because “you look cold even if you’re pretending you’re not.”

Tim ate it standing outside, snow catching in his hair, fingers numb and satisfied, laughing when the steam fogged his glasses.

By evening, the city glowed softly.

Lights flickered on in apartment windows as dusk settled in, the streets quieter but not empty. Tim stood by the window of his rental for a while, mug warming his hands, watching reflections ripple across the glass.

The day had passed without pressure.

No rushing. No proving. Just moments stacking gently on top of each other.

He pulled his notebook back out, flipping to a blank page, and wrote without overthinking it.

Day 3. City feels easier. Coffee helps. Snow everywhere. Walked a lot. No rush. Feels good to just be here.

He closed the notebook and set it aside.

Tomorrow held the promise of clear skies.

And for once, that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Dusk had been slow to settle, the kind that stretched itself thin across the sky, reluctant to give way to night. Tim stood outside the small terminal with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, breath fogging in the cold as he watched the sky darken shade by shade.

The city behind him was still awake — traffic murmuring, lights glowing warm and familiar — but already it felt like something he was stepping away from rather than leaving behind.

This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. He had circled this experience for years, read about it, saved photos, told himself someday. Somehow, someday had finally arrived. He checked his phone once, more out of habit than need, then slipped it away, determined not to filter the night through a screen.

When the bus doors finally opened, warm air spilling out into the cold, Tim climbed aboard with a quiet sense of anticipation. The bus pulled away from the city just after dusk.

He settled into a window seat, shoulders pressed against the cool glass, watching the familiar cityscape shrink behind him. Streetlights flickered past, giving way to stretches of snow-covered fields, then darkness so complete it felt deliberate, almost sacred. The world softened at the edges, the hum of tires on asphalt replacing the noise he hadn’t realized he carried with him every day.

A guide stood a few rows ahead, his voice calm and measured, explaining the northern lights — solar winds, geomagnetic activity, the science of timing. Tim only half-listened, letting the words drift by like imagined snowfall over the countryside. He didn’t need the explanation. He just wanted to see.

Beside him, a man adjusted his hat, eyes glinting in the dim light.

“First time?” the man asked, his accent unmistakably foreign.

Tim nodded. “Yeah. Been on the list for years.”

“That’s how it always goes,” the man said. “People talk about it forever before they actually do it. Some things don’t let you walk away without trying.”

Tim chuckled softly. “Sounds about right.”

They settled into a companionable quiet, the kind that didn’t need filling. After a moment, the man added, “I came last year. Didn’t see a thing. Came back because I couldn’t stand the idea of missing it twice.”

“Really?” Tim asked.

“That unfinished feeling,” the man said simply. “Some things insist on being experienced. Otherwise they follow you.”

Tim turned back to the window, watching the black-and-white landscape rush past. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

The bus slowed as it climbed onto a frozen, snow-packed road, eventually stopping in a clearing that felt like the edge of the world. The doors opened, and cold air rushed in — sharp, clean, bracing.

They stepped off into near silence.

No streetlights. No traffic. No signs of life. Just snow, sky, and an emptiness that pressed in on all sides. Tim inhaled deeply, the air biting at his lungs, grounding him. He pulled his jacket tighter, boots crunching softly as people scattered, faces tilted upward.

Waiting.

The group’s murmurs faded, nervous laughter dissolving into quiet, broken only by the occasional whisper.

Then someone spoke, breathless and reverent.

“There.”

Tim tilted his head back, heart stuttering.

A pale green shimmer stretched across the sky, thin at first — tentative, like a painter testing the canvas. It grew, unfurling slowly, brightening and widening. Threads of white appeared, hints of blue curling at the edges, until the sky itself seemed alive, moving with an intention no photograph could ever hold.

Tim forgot to breathe.

He had watched videos, studied images, imagined this moment for years. None of it prepared him for the way the aurora didn’t just light the sky — it reached, touched something deep inside him that had been quietly waiting.

A soft laugh drifted from somewhere behind him. Someone wiped at their eyes with a gloved hand. A couple nearby stood shoulder to shoulder, fingers entwined.

Tim didn’t move. He let the cold seep through his layers without noticing, let the sky move around him.

He thought about the world he’d stepped away from — the noise, the schedules, the constant pull of responsibility. Here, none of it mattered. Nothing demanded anything from him. There was only the vastness above and the steady pulse of being present beneath it.

Snow fell from a nearby pine in a sudden flurry, scattering like glitter across his boots. Tim smiled, tipping his face into the falling flakes, a rare, unguarded happiness settling in his chest.

“You know,” the man beside him said softly, “they say the northern lights don’t just show you something. They leave something behind.”

Tim nodded, letting the words sink in.

The colors shifted again, curling higher now, arcs of green threaded with white as though the sky were writing in a language meant only for those willing to look up. Awe tightened in his chest — wonder and humility braided together.

Eventually, the lights faded, retreating back into darkness. No one moved right away. The silence held, thick and reverent, as if the sky had asked them all to pause.

Tim stayed rooted longer than most, reluctant to break the spell. When he finally turned, the details came into focus — moonlight sparkling on the snow, the dark outline of trees, the path of footprints behind him. He felt grounded. Connected. Awake in a way he hadn’t been in years.

The bus warmed quickly once they climbed back inside, the heater’s steady hum soothing frozen fingers. Tim leaned back, eyes closing briefly, savoring the quiet afterglow.

“Worth coming back for,” the man said.

Tim smiled. “Yeah. Definitely.”

As the bus turned toward the city again, Tim understood this wasn’t just about crossing something off a list. It was about presence. About choosing to stop long enough to really see — the world, the moment, himself.

Tomorrow, the next adventure would begin.
But tonight had already given him something he’d carry long after the lights faded.

Chapter Text

The morning after the northern lights arrived quietly, pale daylight slipping through the hotel curtains long before Tim was ready to face it. His body was tired, pleasantly sore from the cold and the late night, but his mind felt sharp — awake in a way it hadn’t been in years.

He packed without rushing, fingers brushing over layers of wool and thermal gear, already knowing the day would demand them.

By midmorning, he was back in the air — a short regional flight carrying him deeper into northern Norway. As the plane descended, Tim leaned toward the window, transfixed.

Endless snow-covered forests stretched beneath them, broken by frozen fjords that caught the low winter sun like strips of silver sewn into the land. Long, narrow inlets carved by ancient glaciers, he reminded himself — shaped slowly, patiently, over millennia.

Even from thousands of feet above, the scale of it made his chest tighten.

He leaned back as the plane touched down, the steady hum of the engines dissolving into quiet. Each stop on this trip had felt like a step away from routine, but this wasn’t escape.

It was immersion.

He wasn’t borrowing time anymore — he was living inside it.

The regional airport was small and efficient, the cold biting immediately as he stepped outside. A shuttle van idled nearby, exhaust curling into the air.

Tim climbed in, tugging his scarf higher as the driver — a middle-aged man with a thick accent and an easy smile — greeted him.

“Hello! Where are you headed?”

“The dog sledding camp,” Tim said.

The driver’s eyebrows lifted. “Ah! A good choice.”

Tim laughed. “That’s what I’m hoping. First time.”

“Then you will remember it,” the man said, easing the van onto the snow-packed road. “The dogs are strong. You must listen to them — and keep your balance.”

The van wound through forests heavy with frost.

Snow clung to branches in delicate lacework. Small wooden cabins appeared and disappeared between the trees, thin trails of smoke curling into the pale sky.

Tim pressed his palm to the cold glass, noticing tiny tracks in the snow — foxes, rabbits, something smaller he couldn’t quite identify.

The silence out here felt intentional.

Earned.

“Do you travel often?” the driver asked.

“Not like this,” Tim said. “This is… a long time coming.”

The man nodded, as if that explanation needed nothing more.

Another traveler sat across from him, bundled in layers with a knit cap pulled low. “First time dog sledding?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Tim said, smiling. “I’ve watched plenty of videos, but I’m guessing that doesn’t count.”

She laughed. “Not even close. Just wait until they start pulling.”

By the time the van reached the clearing, the sound hit him first — barking, howling, yipping, a chaotic chorus thick with anticipation.

Teams of dogs strained against their harnesses, snow flying as paws scraped and kicked. Lean bodies vibrated with energy, eyes bright and focused.

Tim’s stomach flipped — excitement edged sharply with nerves.

He crouched just as one husky bounded toward him, nearly knocking him off balance.

“Alright,” Tim laughed, steadying himself. “I get it. You’re ready.”

The guide ran through the basics — commands, braking, what to do if the sled tipped. Tim nodded, absorbing what he could, adrenaline already humming beneath his skin.

“You ready?” the woman asked, tugging her gloves tight.

“Ready enough,” Tim said, his grin only slightly unsteady.

The moment the lines were released, the sled surged forward.

Snow sprayed up, cold and sharp against his face, and Tim laughed out loud as the dogs took off, muscles working in perfect, powerful rhythm.

The forest rushed past — white and blue-shadowed, impossibly still beyond the movement of the team.

The trail twisted and dipped.

Tim wobbled once, shouted a command too late, recovered with a breathless laugh. One dog barked nonstop like it was urging him on; another tried to veer toward the trees, stubbornly curious.

Somehow, it all held together.

For long stretches, everything else fell away.

The cold.
Time.
Thought.

There was only the sled, the dogs, the wind tearing past his ears, and the steady concentration of staying upright.

When they finally stopped, his arms burned and his cheeks ached from smiling.

He crouched to scratch one of the dogs behind the ears, murmuring praise as a tail thumped happily against the snow.

Back at the cabin, warmth wrapped around him — firelight, wood smoke, mugs of cocoa pressed into cold hands.

Tim sank into a chair, breath slowing as the adrenaline ebbed.

Through the window, the clearing lay quiet again, as if nothing had disturbed it.

He watched steam rise from the dogs’ bodies, watched handlers move calmly among them, and let the images replay — the pull of the sled, the rhythm of paws on snow, the way the forest had seemed to open just long enough to let them pass.

Tomorrow, he’d move on.

Another place.
Another experience.

But today — today had been raw and loud and alive in the best possible way.

Some adventures weren’t meant to be captured or explained.
Some were meant to be felt — fully, completely — and carried forward, still warm, long after the cold had settled back in.

Chapter Text

The morning came slowly, light filtering through frost-laced glass like it had nowhere else to be. Tim woke before his alarm, the cold pressing gently through the walls of the small lodge, a reminder that winter didn’t pause just because he was warm beneath layered blankets.

For a moment, he stayed still.

The silence here was different than sleep back home. It wasn’t empty. It felt held — thick, patient, almost expectant. He lay there listening to it, the faint creak of the building settling, the distant hush of wind through trees. No traffic. No voices. No constant undercurrent of sound demanding his attention.

Eventually, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, breath puffing faintly in the cool air.

Dressing took time. Not because he was slow, but because every layer mattered. Thermal base, wool mid-layers, insulated pants, jacket. He tugged on socks carefully, boots next, double-checking laces the way he always did when something unfamiliar waited ahead. Outside the window, the sky had settled into a pale winter blue, the sun still low, the world washed clean by cold.

He packed deliberately: water, snacks, extra gloves, hat, map, compass. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing missing. When he finally zipped his pack closed, he felt ready in a way that had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with attention.

Downstairs, the lodge was quiet but awake. A few other travelers moved through the space, murmuring greetings, sipping coffee, adjusting scarves. The smell of brewed coffee and toasted bread hung in the air, grounding and warm. Tim poured himself a mug, wrapped his hands around it, and took a slow sip.

Outside, snow crunched beneath boots as a shuttle van waited near the drive, its engine humming softly. Tim stepped into the cold, breath sharp in his lungs, and joined the small group gathering near the vehicle. No one spoke much. There was an unspoken understanding — this wasn’t the kind of morning that needed filling with noise.

The drive was short but winding, the road narrowing as it carried them away from clustered buildings and deeper into the forest. Pines stood heavy with frost, their branches bowed under the weight of snow. Every so often, the land opened just enough to reveal a distant ridge or the faint line of a fjord catching the early light.

The driver slowed near a small wooden sign partially buried in snow.

TRAILHEAD — RIDGE LOOP

Tim stepped down from the van, boots sinking slightly into packed snow. The cold hit immediately, clean and bracing. He adjusted his gloves, shouldered his pack, and took in the space around him.

This wasn’t dramatic in the way postcards promised. There were no sweeping vistas yet, no obvious payoff waiting just beyond the trees. Just a narrow trail disappearing into the forest, marked by red paint on trunks and poles half-buried in snow.

A woman stood nearby, tightening the straps on her pack. She looked up and smiled, breath fogging in front of her face.

“Beautiful morning for it,” she said.

“Feels like it,” Tim replied. “Cold enough to keep you honest.”

She laughed softly. “That’s one way to put it. I’m Grace.”

“Tim.”

“First time on this trail?”

“First time hiking snow like this at all,” he admitted. “I’ve done trails, just… not like this.”

“Well,” she said, glancing toward the trees, “it’s a good one to start with. Quiet, steady, nothing flashy — but the ridge makes it worth it.”

They set off together, boots crunching in rhythm as the trail drew them in. The forest closed around them almost immediately, branches overhead knitting into a canopy that filtered light into pale bands across the snow. Every sound seemed magnified — the scrape of boots, the soft thump of snow slipping from a branch, the faint whistle of wind threading through needles.

Conversation came easily at first. Where they were from. How long they were staying. What had drawn them north in winter instead of summer. Grace moved with the confidence of someone familiar with cold trails, her pace steady without rushing.

“People think winter hiking is miserable,” she said, stepping carefully over a narrow drift. “But there’s something about it. The quiet. The way everything slows down.”

Tim nodded. “It feels… deliberate. Like the world’s asking you to pay attention.”

She smiled at that. “Exactly.”

They walked for a while without speaking, letting the trail do the work. The incline was gentle but constant, enough to warm him beneath his layers. His breath evened out, body settling into the rhythm of movement.

Along the way, Tim noticed details he might have missed otherwise — animal tracks threading across the path, the delicate frost clinging to spiderwebs strung between branches, the way sunlight fractured through ice crystals suspended in the air. Nothing felt staged. Nothing felt performative. It just was.

At a fork in the trail, Grace slowed.

“I’m taking the left,” she said, pointing to a narrower path that angled more steeply upward. “Steeper, quieter. The main trail loops around and meets the ridge a bit later.”

Tim nodded. “Sounds like you know where you’re going.”

She grinned. “I try. You’ll be fine — just keep an eye on the markers. And don’t forget to look up.”

“Thanks for the company,” Tim said.

“Enjoy the quiet,” she replied, already turning away.

Her footsteps faded quickly, swallowed by snow and trees.

Alone now, the silence deepened.

Without conversation to anchor him, Tim became more aware of his own presence — the weight of his pack, the warmth building under his jacket, the steady rhythm of breath and step. There was no urgency. No schedule pressing at his back. Just the trail and the next marker ahead.

The path narrowed as it climbed, winding between thicker stands of pine. Snow lay deeper here, untouched except for the faint outline of previous boots, already softening at the edges. He adjusted his pace, careful with footing, letting balance and momentum work together.

Time stretched.

Minutes blurred into something less defined, measured not by clocks but by effort and breath. When he paused to rest, it wasn’t because he was exhausted, but because the stillness invited it. He leaned lightly against a tree, feeling the rough bark through his glove, listening to the forest settle around him.

No voices.
No engines.
No distant signs of life.

And yet, it didn’t feel empty.

As the trail climbed higher, the trees thinned, opening into small clearings where light spilled freely across the snow. From one of them, he caught his first glimpse of the fjord below — a pale curve of frozen water nestled between dark slopes, sunlight glinting off its surface.

He stopped without thinking.

The view wasn’t wide yet. It didn’t demand awe. It offered itself quietly, like something that would wait as long as he needed. Tim stood there, breath fogging, chest rising and falling, and let it settle.

The trail grew steeper near the ridge, the wind picking up as the forest gave way to open ground. Snow skittered across the surface in soft, whispering waves. Tim leaned into it, boots finding purchase, body adjusting instinctively.

At the top, the world opened.

Mountains rolled outward in every direction, their slopes softened by snow, their edges sharp against the sky. The fjord stretched below, long and narrow, ice catching the light in fractured patterns. Sunlight broke through clouds just enough to set the surface aglow, like polished metal.

Tim stood still, wind tugging at his jacket, cold brushing his cheeks raw.

He felt small — not in a diminishing way, but in the way that made everything else feel larger, steadier, more certain. The kind of smallness that didn’t erase him, but placed him exactly where he belonged.

He turned slowly, taking it in from every angle. No single viewpoint held the whole thing. Each step revealed something new — a hidden inlet, a distant peak, the subtle shift of light across snow.

For a long time, he didn’t move.

When he finally did, it was to walk the length of the ridge, following the markers as they curved gently along the edge. The wind was stronger here, louder, carrying the scent of ice and pine and open air. He pulled his scarf higher, eyes watering slightly, and kept going.

On the far side, the trail dipped again, leading him back toward shelter and trees. The descent demanded attention — careful steps, controlled balance — but his body felt tuned in now, responsive, grounded.

By the time he reached the lower forest, the light had shifted, shadows stretching longer between trunks. His legs ached pleasantly, the kind of ache that spoke of effort rather than strain.

When the trail finally widened near the shuttle stop, Tim slowed, reluctant to break the rhythm. He stood for a moment at the edge of the clearing, looking back toward where the trees swallowed the path.

The hike hadn’t been dramatic.
It hadn’t been extreme.
It hadn’t asked anything from him except presence.

And that, he realized, was exactly why it mattered.

As the shuttle came into view, engine idling softly, Tim adjusted his pack one last time and stepped forward, carrying with him the quiet weight of snow, wind, and open sky — not as something to explain or record, but as something lived.

Some places didn’t ask to be remembered.

They simply stayed with you, long after you left the trail behind.

Chapter Text

Tim settled into the same small café in Tromsø he’d found himself returning to every morning since arriving. The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside, shaking snow from his coat out of habit even though it hadn’t been falling hard. The warmth wrapped around him immediately, familiar now — not a surprise, but still welcome.

A few days in, the place already felt like a marker in his routine.

The air smelled of dark coffee and fresh bread, something sweet baking in the back. The wooden floors creaked faintly beneath his boots as he crossed to the window table he preferred, the one that let him watch the street without feeling like part of it. He set his gloves and hat aside, shoulders relaxing as a mug was placed in front of him with a nod from the barista who was starting to recognize him.

Steam rose immediately, curling into the air and fogging the window in soft, uneven swirls.

Tim wrapped his hands around the cup and breathed.

The exhaustion from travel was long gone now, replaced by something steadier — a quiet awareness of where he was, how far he’d come, and how different everything felt without being overwhelming. The first few days had been about adjusting: the cold that crept in slowly, the unfamiliar cadence of the language around him, the way daylight felt precious here.

Outside, Tromsø moved at its own unhurried pace. People passed in thick coats and wool hats, boots crunching against packed snow. A couple lingered near the corner, shoulders pressed together as they talked. A man crossed the street carrying a crate, breath blooming white in the air.

The light was already fading.

The sun hovered low, barely clearing the horizon, casting a pale blue-gold wash across the snow that made everything look softened, muted. Not quite morning. Not quite afternoon. Tim checked the time out of habit and let out a quiet breath through his nose.

It still hadn’t stopped feeling strange — daylight measured in hours instead of stretches of the day. Something you noticed, tracked, planned around.

He pulled out his phone.

The group chat icon sat exactly where it always did. Same thread. Same people. The one thing that hadn’t shifted as his world widened.

Lucy.
Angela.
Nolan.
Nyla.
Wade.

Tim opened it, thumbs hovering for a moment longer than necessary. This would be the first real check-in — the intentional one. Not a quick “made it” text, not logistics. Just… him, where he was, letting them see a piece of it.

He started typing.

Tim:
Hey everyone check-in from Norway. I’ve been in Tromsø a few days now. Everything’s good — quiet town, lots of snow, currently hiding out in my favorite café with coffee strong enough to solve most problems.

He snapped a photo through the window: frosted glass, dim light, the street outside dusted white. Then another of the café itself — warm wood, soft lighting, people bundled and relaxed. He attached both and sent them.

The message went through. A beat later, the familiar line of delivered notifications followed.

Tim leaned back in his chair, watching condensation trail slowly down the window. The café hummed gently around him — clink of cups, low conversation, a chair scraping softly across the floor. It felt settled. Lived-in. A good place to pause.

Before anyone could respond, he added another message.

Tim:
Also — fair warning — daylight here is limited. Sun’s only around for a few hours a day right now. Apparently it won’t fully show again until January 15th. So if I start sounding dramatic, blame the polar night.

That one made him smile as he hit send.

The replies came quickly.

Angela:
A FEW HOURS???
Nope. I don’t like that. I don’t approve this choice.

Lucy:
That light is beautiful though. It almost looks unreal. Are you staying warm?

Nolan:
Of course you’d choose somewhere the sun barely clocks in.

Nyla:
It explains the atmosphere. Gorgeous… and slightly unsettling.

Tim felt his shoulders loosen as the messages stacked up.

Tim:
I’m warm. Layers are doing their job. And yeah — it’s surreal. Feels like the whole day exists in a long pause.

A moment passed before another name appeared.

Wade:
You alive, son?

Tim laughed quietly, earning a curious glance from the woman at the next table.

Tim:
Alive. No frostbite. Coffee secured. Morale solid.

Wade:
Good. Because if you froze solid up there, I’d have to explain it to everyone.

Angela:
PLEASE explain that conversation in detail.

Nolan:
I’m mostly impressed Tim found a café and not a snowbank to sit in.

Lucy:
Ignore them. I’m glad you checked in. The town looks peaceful.

It was — and hearing her say it made him realize how much he agreed.

Tim:
It really is. Everything’s slower here. You notice things more — sounds, light, people. It’s different, but in a good way.

Nyla:
Okay but… what have you actually done so far?

Tim glanced down at his phone, then opened his camera roll.

He hesitated for half a second — then smiled.

Tim:
Dog sledding.

He attached the photo.

It caught him mid-laugh, bundled in heavy gear, hands gripping the sled as a team of huskies surged forward ahead of him. Snow sprayed up around them, motion frozen in a blur of white and muscle and pure momentum. His face was red from the cold, eyes bright, grin unmistakably real.

The reactions came fast.

Angela:
EXCUSE ME???
WHY ARE YOU HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE.

Lucy:
Oh my god. Tim. That looks incredible.

Nolan:
That actually looks… insanely cool.

Nyla:
You look genuinely happy.

Wade:
…Alright. That’s impressive.

Tim felt something warm settle in his chest — not pride exactly, but recognition. That they could see it. That he didn’t have to explain how it felt.

Tim:
It was unreal. Loud. Chaotic. Cold. Absolutely worth it.

There was a brief lull, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. Just understood.

Then Lucy chimed in again.

Lucy:
What’s next on the list?

Tim glanced out the window, at the dim light slipping lower, at the snow that seemed to absorb sound instead of reflecting it.

Tim:
Glacier climb. Tomorrow. Ice, ropes, crampons — the whole thing.

Angela:
Absolutely not. That sentence alone stresses me out.

Nolan:
Of course it’s a glacier.

Wade:
Just don’t do anything reckless.

Tim smiled faintly at that.

Tim:
I’ll check in again soon.

No promises about timing. No pressure. Just the intent.

He set the phone down after one last message.

Tim:
I’ll send postcards & photo’s when I can. Just wanted you all to know I’m good.

The responses came in softer this time.

Lucy: We’re here.
Angela sent a heart.
Nolan reacted with a thumbs-up.
Nyla: Stay safe.

Wade closed it out.

Wade:
Proud of you, Tim.

That one settled deep, quiet and steady.

Tim set his phone aside, staring at the tabletop as the café continued around him. Outside, snow had started falling again — light, delicate flakes drifting through the dimness, catching the last thin strands of daylight.

This wasn’t the plane.
It wasn’t the landing.
It wasn’t checking something off a list.

This was the moment that made it real.

He finished his coffee slowly, letting the warmth linger as the light outside faded into something closer to twilight than afternoon. Tomorrow would bring movement again — ice under his boots, cold air in his lungs, the vast quiet of a glacier stretching out beneath him.

But for now, he stayed exactly where he was.

A familiar café.
A few hours of light.
And a group chat that made even the farthest place feel connected.

And as the sun slipped away, Tim felt steady — grounded, ready, carrying home with him in the simplest way possible.

Chapter Text

Tim woke before his alarm.

Not because he was restless — but because the dark had shifted.

It was subtle. A thinning of shadows at the edge of the curtains, the faintest suggestion of light pushing back against night. Not sunrise, not really. More like the world adjusting, getting ready.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room in Tromsø, listening to the muted quiet of the building. Pipes hummed softly. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. Outside, the city was still wrapped in darkness, calm rather than asleep.

Today wasn’t about wandering.

It was about doing something he’d deliberately signed up for.

Tim swung his legs out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor, and stretched slowly. He rolled his shoulders, testing them, feeling the faint soreness still lingering from earlier hikes. It made him smile a little. His body remembered effort. That felt good.

He dressed with care, layering without rushing. Thermal base. Fleece. Insulated pants. Thick socks. He checked the weather — more confirmation than concern — then went through his pack.

Gloves. Extra gloves. Water. Snacks. Neck gaiter. Phone. Headlamp, just in case.

Crampons and harness would be provided. Everything else was on him.

When he stepped outside, the cold hit immediately — sharper than in town, cleaner somehow. His breath fogged thickly in front of him as he walked to the pickup point, boots crunching over packed snow.

A bus idled at the curb, engine rumbling low, lights glowing warm against the dark.

This was it.

He climbed aboard, nodding to the driver, and scanned the rows. Around a dozen others were already seated — bundled up, half-awake, some clutching travel mugs, others staring out the windows like they didn’t want to miss the transition from night to day.

Tim chose a seat halfway back.

A woman across the aisle smiled at him, eyes bright above a scarf pulled high. “Morning,” she said, accent light.

“Morning,” Tim replied.

The bus pulled away smoothly, Tromsø sliding past in muted blues and grays. The city lights thinned quickly, replaced by long stretches of road edged with snowbanks and dark forest. Mountains rose in the distance, shapes more suggested than defined.

An hour and a half, the guide had said.

Tim didn’t mind.

A man a few rows up leaned back and spoke over his shoulder. “First glacier?”

Tim nodded. “Yeah.”

“Same,” the man said, grinning. “Figured if I was going to do something cold, might as well go all in.”

Tim laughed softly. “Makes sense to me.”

Conversation picked up and faded naturally — where people were from, what else they’d done so far. Nothing heavy. Nothing performative. Just people who’d all decided to show up for the same thing.

The guide stood at the front as they drove, going over safety basics and what to expect.

“This is Steindalsbreen,” she said. “It’s approachable, but it’s still a glacier. Move with intention. Short steps. Pay attention.”

When the bus finally slowed, Tim felt it before he saw it. The temperature dropped another notch as the doors opened, cold cutting in clean and immediate.

They stepped out into a wide clearing.

And there it was.

Steindalsbreen stretched ahead of them, a broad river of ice flowing down from the mountains. Blue veins ran through it, layered with white and gray. It caught the thin light and reflected it back quietly.

The glacier didn’t demand attention.

It simply existed.

Tim stood still for a moment, pack resting against his shoulders, taking it in. It wasn’t dramatic in a loud way. It was solid. Old. Unbothered.

Gear was handed out with calm efficiency. Harnesses fitted. Helmets buckled. Crampons strapped on. Ice axes placed in gloved hands.

Tim tested his footing, stamping once, then again, feeling the metal bite. The sound was dull and reassuring.

“Let the crampons do the work,” the guide reminded them.

They approached together, boots crunching until snow gave way to ice.

The moment Tim stepped onto the glacier, his focus sharpened.

Not nerves — awareness.

The surface was solid, but it demanded respect. He adjusted instinctively, knees soft, weight centered, posture steady.

The climb started easy.

Single file. Unhurried. The glacier rose gently at first, its surface etched with grooves and ridges formed long before any of them existed. Meltwater ran nearby in thin channels, clear as glass.

Tim found a rhythm.

Step.
Plant.
Breathe.

Cold seeped through his gloves. His calves started to burn as the incline increased, then settled into a steady ache. Wind cut across the ice, sharp but manageable.

Someone behind him muttered a quiet complaint. Someone ahead laughed, breathless.

Tim smiled to himself.

They paused near a cluster of ice formations, jagged and sculpted like frozen waves. Tim tilted his head back, taking them in. It wasn’t awe that knocked the breath out of him — it was appreciation. The simple recognition of something well beyond him.

They climbed higher, conversation fading away on its own. Not because it was discouraged — because it wasn’t needed.

Tim felt clear.

Not empty. Just present.

The guide paused near a steeper section. “Everyone good?”

A series of nods.

She glanced at Tim. “You’re steady.”

“Thanks,” he said, meaning it.

The final stretch opened into a wide, flatter expanse. The view spread out in every direction — mountains, valleys, the glacier curving away beneath a pale sky.

Tim stopped, hands braced on his thighs, breathing hard. He straightened, scanning the horizon.

It felt good to be here.

Not small. Not overwhelmed.

Just exactly where he was.

They were given time to drink and look around. Tim pulled out his phone, snapping a few quick photos — the ice beneath his boots, the stretch of white and blue ahead of them. His fingers numbed fast, and he tucked it away with a huff of breath.

That was enough.

The descent required the same focus. Legs trembled slightly by the time they reached flatter ground again, muscles worked and warm beneath layers. When Tim finally stepped off the glacier and unclipped his harness, exhaustion settled in comfortably.

Earned.

The bus ride back was quieter. People dozed. Smiled at one another. Tim leaned his head back, eyes closed, feeling the hum of fatigue without fighting it.

Back at the hotel, warmth wrapped around him almost immediately.

He showered, slow and thorough, letting hot water work its way into tired muscles. Later, wrapped in a towel, he sat on the edge of the bed and opened his journal.

⸻

Journal — glacier climb

Cold. Steady. Worth it.
Every step mattered.
Didn’t rush it. Didn’t need to.

Would do it again.

⸻

Tim closed the journal and set it aside.

His body was tired.
His mind was light.

Outside, Tromsø rested under the dark sky.

Tomorrow could wait.

Chapter Text

The shuttle left Tromsø just after midday.

Tim settled into a window seat near the back, shrugging out of his heavier gloves but keeping his hat on as the heater hummed softly beneath the floor. The bus wasn’t full — a handful of other travelers scattered through the rows, bundled in layers, quiet in that shared, anticipatory way that came with cold-weather excursions.

The city slipped away quickly.

Streetlights gave way to darker stretches of road, snowbanks rising along either side as the bus followed the curves of the fjord. Mountains pressed closer the farther they went, their shapes heavy and still against the sky. Snow clung to their slopes in uneven drifts, catching what little daylight remained and reflecting it back in pale washes of blue and gray.

Tim watched it all pass without reaching for his phone.

The road stretched on, smooth but steady, the low rumble of tires against packed snow filling the space between thoughts. Every so often the driver slowed for a bend, and the bus leaned gently into it, as if moving carefully out of respect for the landscape.

Nordkjosbotn felt quieter than Tromsø the moment they arrived.

Smaller. More tucked away.

The shuttle pulled into a cleared area just off the road, headlights illuminating open snow and a few low structures nearby. The air felt colder here — not dramatically so, but cleaner, sharper. Tim stepped down from the bus and immediately felt it settle against his face, biting at his cheeks, grounding him.

This wasn’t a place you rushed through.

The guide gathered them briefly, pointing out the route they’d take on foot, reminding everyone to keep close, to watch their footing. Tim adjusted his pack, tugged his gloves back on, and followed as they set off across the snow.

That was when he first saw it clearly.

The snow crunched softly beneath Tim’s boots as he followed the guide across the open stretch of white. The sky was already fading into deep blues and purples, the sun sinking low behind distant hills. Ahead of him, the igloo sat quietly, rounded and pale against the snow — simple, sturdy, almost unreal in its stillness.

Tim slowed, taking it in. The cold bit at his cheeks, sharp and bracing, but he barely noticed it anymore. He let his eyes roam over the curves of the igloo, the faint shadows cast by the low light, the subtle patterns of frost etched across the ice. Every line, every ridge, spoke of care, of hands that had shaped this temporary home with intention.

The guide explained the basics — how the structure held heat, where to place his boots, how the sleeping bags were rated for temperatures far colder than tonight would bring. Tim nodded, listening, but his attention drifted. He’d learned by now that these moments passed quickly. It was better to feel them than analyze them too much.

He stepped inside.

The air was immediately different. Calm, still, as if the igloo had swallowed the world outside. The walls curved inward, smooth and faintly blue, glowing softly from lantern light. Tiny flecks of ice caught the glow and sparkled faintly, like stars caught inside the walls. Tim exhaled slowly, watching his breath fade, and let the silence wrap around him.

It felt like stepping into another world — or maybe into the quiet space between thoughts. A place without expectation, without schedules, without the usual pull of the outside world.

He set his pack down carefully, brushing snow from his gloves, and ran a hand along the wall. The ice was solid, cool beneath his fingers, not brittle the way he’d expected. Everything about it felt intentional. Thought through. Built to last the night.

Tim sank into the sleeping bag, burrowing deep, but even bundled in layers, he remained aware of the cold pressing just outside his cocoon. The lantern’s light flickered across the walls, casting shadows that stretched and shrank as the flame danced. Somewhere beyond the igloo, the wind whispered across the snow, a gentle, constant sound that felt like a lullaby composed by the land itself.

His body ached in that pleasant, earned way — from sledding, from hiking, from glacier climbs, from long days spent moving through cold air and wide spaces. Each muscle carried the memory of effort and accomplishment, each ache a reminder of challenges met and endured. His mind was quiet, almost emptied of thought, and yet full — full of small impressions, quiet observations, fleeting moments that had layered themselves onto him like snow on a branch.

He thought about how far he’d come already.

The chaos of dog sledding, the thrill of the dogs pulling him through forests and over frozen rivers.
The stillness of the snowy hike, the hush of snow underfoot, the sense of being entirely alone in a world untouched.
The awe of seeing the Northern Lights, their color and motion stirring something deep inside him.
The glacier climb, every step deliberate, every breath earned, teaching him patience without ever needing to say so aloud.

Each experience had layered itself onto him, not loudly, but deeply. And now this — the quiet, intimate world of the igloo, surrounded by endless snow, the cold pressing in but never harsh, the soft lantern light painting gentle patterns — it all felt like a pause, a breathing space to let it settle.

Tim shifted slightly, listening to the silence press in around him. No sirens. No radios. No schedules. Just breath, cold, and the steady sense that he was exactly where he was meant to be in this moment.

He pulled out his notebook, the pages stiff from the cold, and scribbled thoughts meant only for himself. A few lines about the feeling of being held in quiet, the sensation of cold pressed gently against warm layers, the way his body seemed to notice everything without comment. He drew tiny sketches of the lantern and the curve of the ceiling, the faint texture of ice along the walls. Each mark was a meditation, a quiet witness to the night.

Tim lay back again, letting his head rest against the sleeping bag, and let his mind wander. He thought of small things: the way snowflakes had clung to his eyelashes during the walk, the sound of huskies’ paws on hard-packed snow, the way his boots had slipped once or twice on the glacier, forcing him to steady himself and focus entirely. Each memory made him smile softly, quietly.

Time seemed to stretch. He counted nothing, measured nothing. He simply listened — to the faint wind, to the distant creak of shifting ice, to his own breath, to the rhythm of the night. Moments passed in layers, seamless, each one holding weight and meaning.

Outside, the sky darkened further. Stars began to appear, tiny pinpricks of cold light against the deep indigo. Tim imagined them stretching across the frozen landscape, reaching into every valley and over every ridge, distant but close enough to feel.

The igloo held its quiet. The lantern dimmed. The cold remained just beyond the walls — present, patient, no longer demanding.

And as Tim closed his eyes, wrapped in layers of warmth against the frozen night, he let himself linger in the moment — fully awake to the cold, fully alive to the calm, fully aware that this, too, was exactly enough.

Chapter Text

The cold pressed in from every direction.

Tim woke slowly, breath fogging faintly in the air before him, the world reduced to curved walls of packed snow and a low, steady quiet. The igloo held its silence carefully, insulating him from the wind outside, but never letting him forget where he was. Lantern light had long since faded, leaving the space washed in soft, early gray filtering through the ice.

He lay still for a moment, listening.

The faint whisper of wind across snow.
The subtle shift of ice settling under its own weight.
His own breathing — slow, steady, grounded.

There was something sacred about waking up like this. No alarms. No voices. Just cold, quiet, and the awareness of being entirely present.

Eventually, he moved.

The sleeping bag crackled softly as he sat up, joints stiff but satisfied, his body still humming with the memory of exertion — sled runners biting into snow, boots gripping ice, muscles worked hard and honestly. He pulled on his layers methodically, fingers practiced despite the chill. Thermal shirt. Fleece. Pants stiff with cold. Socks. Boots.

Gear wasn’t comfort here.
It was respect.

His duffel waited near the entrance tunnel, already dusted with a fine layer of frost. Tim checked it once more, not because anything was missing, but because ritual mattered. Heavy jacket folded tight. Gloves paired. Wool hat tucked where he could reach it easily. Everything had its place. Nothing was extra.

Lapland would expect the same discipline.

When he stepped outside, the cold met him without apology — sharp, clean, immediate. The sky had softened into pale blues and silvers, the sun hovering low and distant, offering light without warmth. Snow stretched outward in every direction, smooth and undisturbed except for a few scattered tracks leading back toward the camp.

A shuttle waited near the treeline, engine idling, exhaust curling into the air.

Tim took one last look at the igloo — simple, rounded, already blending back into the landscape — then shouldered his duffel and walked toward the van. Snow creaked beneath his boots, the sound crisp and final in the quiet morning.

Inside the shuttle, warmth crept in slowly. The driver greeted him with a nod, pulling away without fuss. The road cut through forests heavy with frost, branches bowed beneath the weight of snow. A pale winter sun filtered through the trees, more presence than heat.

Tim watched the landscape slide past, letting the silence stretch. He didn’t feel like he was leaving anything behind. Not really. The Arctic clung to him — in the stiffness of his fingers, in the way his breath still carried the memory of cold, in the quiet clarity that had settled deep in his chest.

The airport appeared without ceremony.

Inside, warmth wrapped around him in layers. Coffee. Baked bread. Clean recycled air. Travelers moved through the terminal with rolling bags and low conversations, unhurried, contained. Tim paused near the windows, watching sunlight spill across snowbanks outside, committing the quiet details to memory.

At the counter, the clerk weighed his duffel and printed the tag. Each mechanical beep felt like punctuation — not an ending, just movement forward. Northward. Deeper into winter.

Lapland waited.

Tim found a seat near the gate and let the rhythm of the terminal wash over him. The Arctic hadn’t loosened its grip yet. If anything, it followed him — settled into his muscles, sharpened his awareness, steadied his thoughts.

When boarding was called, he stood easily. The duffel’s weight pressed solid and earned against his back. The jetway was narrow, the hum of the aircraft steady and reassuring. He took the window seat, resting his palm briefly against the cold glass before pulling it back.

Outside, snow lined the runway in uneven ridges. Beyond it, fjords and mountains stretched outward, muted and vast. As the plane taxied, the town slipped past in fragments — rooftops, roads, frozen water catching the light.

Then the ground fell away.

From above, the world softened into patterns. White valleys. Dark tree lines. Frozen waterways gleaming like polished metal. Tim leaned back, eyes closing briefly, letting the vibration of the engines seep through him.

The cold wasn’t something he was escaping.

It was something he carried — sharpened senses, steady endurance, the quiet clarity that came from living inside extremes.

The flight traced forests and waterways that remained firmly winter-bound. Snow thinned in places, thickened in others, but it never disappeared. Beneath the clouds, Lapland revealed itself slowly: endless pine forests, rivers edged with ice, small settlements tucked into the land rather than spread across it.

Tim pulled out his notebook and wrote a few quiet lines. Not for anyone else. Just enough to mark the shift — not from cold to warmth, but from one kind of winter to another.

The descent began smoothly. The plane tilted, engines steady. Below, the Swedish landscape rose to meet him: frozen lakes glazed with pale light, roads winding through forest, rooftops dusted with snow. The air felt different somehow — not warmer, just softer. Less brutal. Still unmistakably winter.

The wheels touched down with a muted thud.

Lapland, Sweden.

Tim exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the moment. This wasn’t arrival at comfort. It was arrival at continuity — another chapter shaped by cold air, quiet beauty, and long, deliberate days.

He retrieved his duffel and moved toward the terminal, boots striking solid ground again. Through the windows, the land stretched wide and waiting. Snow-speckled hills. Bare trees. Roads disappearing into the distance.

He paused briefly, letting the first moments settle.

The Arctic winds still echoed in his memory, but they didn’t fade. They blended, becoming part of what came next.

With his bag secure and his shoulders squared, Tim stepped forward.

Lapland awaited.

Chapter Text

Lapland, Sweden

The air smelled different the moment Tim stepped out of the terminal.

It was still cold — unmistakably winter — but the sharp edge he’d grown used to had softened. The air carried a faint sweetness, something earthy beneath the frost, like frozen lakes and snow-covered ground slowly waking beneath daylight. Above him, the sky stretched pale and wide, high clouds diffusing the sun into something gentle rather than harsh.

He paused just long enough to take it in.

Inside, the terminal had been all motion and muffled sound. Out here, everything felt open. Breathing felt easier, even with the cold pulling at his lungs.

Tim retrieved his suitcase from the carousel, fingers stiff but steady as he tipped it upright. The duffel followed, slung easily over his shoulder. The weight felt familiar, balanced — not something to endure, just something to carry. His body still remembered winter clearly: the long days of movement, the cold that demanded attention, the quiet that sharpened every sense. That hadn’t faded. It had simply settled.

Outside, shuttles lined the curb in neat rows, engines idling low. Exhaust drifted upward in lazy curls. Tim scanned the signs until he spotted the hotel name printed along the side of a dark van.

He approached, reservation pulled up on his phone.

The driver — bundled in a thick jacket, knit cap pulled low — glanced at the screen, then at Tim.
“Hotel Aurora?” he asked, accent thick but friendly.

“Yes,” Tim said.

The driver nodded once, decisive. He lifted the suitcase with practiced ease, slid it into the cargo hold, then gestured to the duffel.
“This also.”

“Thanks,” Tim said as it disappeared beside the suitcase.

“English is… okay,” the driver added, a little apologetic.

“More than okay,” Tim replied. “I appreciate it.”

That earned him a small smile as the driver shut the compartment and waved him inside.

The shuttle pulled away smoothly, tires crunching softly over packed snow.

Lapland revealed itself gradually through the frost-speckled windows. Wooden houses painted in deep reds and warm ochres dotted the landscape, their roofs capped with snow. Chimneys sent thin trails of smoke into the air. Roads cut clean paths through pine forests that stretched outward in orderly stillness.

Nothing felt rushed.

Traffic moved steadily, deliberately. Even the town seemed to breathe at an even pace. Tim watched pedestrians bundled in thick coats, scarves pulled high, moving with purpose but without hurry. A couple paused at a crosswalk, laughing about something private. A child tugged a small sled behind them, boots slipping slightly on packed snow.

The shuttle rolled over a stretch of cobblestone, the vibration brief and familiar. Bridges arched over narrow rivers glazed with ice, dark water visible at the edges. Swans drifted near the banks, unbothered by the cold, perfectly at home.

“This is… good winter,” the driver said suddenly, glancing at Tim in the rearview mirror.
“Cold, yes. But not angry.”

Tim huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

The driver nodded, satisfied. “Angry winter is farther north.”

Tim didn’t argue.

When the shuttle slowed in front of his hotel, the driver stepped out to help unload the bags. Tim took the suitcase handle, slung the duffel back over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Welcome,” the driver replied, then added carefully, “Enjoy Lapland.”

Inside, warmth met him immediately. Polished wood underfoot. Soft lighting. The low murmur of voices. And beneath it all, the unmistakable scent of coffee.

At the front desk, a woman looked up from her screen and smiled.
“Hello.”

“Hi,” Tim said. “Checking in.”

She switched to English without hesitation, though the cadence remained careful.
“Name?”

“Bradford.”

She typed for a moment, eyes flicking between the screen and the reservation.
“Yes,” she said finally, nodding. “Welcome.”

She slid a key card across the counter and gestured toward the elevators.
“Breakfast is… seven to ten. Coffee all day.” After a brief pause, she added, “If you need help — we try.”

“I’ll take ‘try,’” Tim said. “Thanks.”

She smiled at that, small but genuine.

Tim set his suitcase just inside the lobby, resting the duffel against it. He could have gone straight upstairs.

Instead, he glanced back toward the street.

Across the way, a café had its door propped open, light spilling onto the snow-dusted sidewalk. A chalkboard sign stood out front, words written in looping script he couldn’t fully read, but the smell drifting out told him enough.

He tugged his coat back on and stepped outside again.

The bell above the café door chimed softly as he entered. Heat wrapped around him, richer than the hotel’s — layered with sugar, yeast, and spice. A small line stood at the counter, locals chatting quietly. Tim waited, listening without trying to translate everything, the cadence of the language warm and fluid.

When it was his turn, the woman behind the counter smiled.
“Coffee?” she asked, accent lilting.

“Yes, please,” Tim said. He gestured toward the pastry case. “And… that one?”

She followed his gaze.
“Cardamom bun.” Then, with a knowing nod, “Very good.”

“I’ll trust you.”

She laughed softly as she rang him up. “Everyone does.”

Tim took his coffee and pastry to a small table by the window. Outside, people passed in steady streams, boots crunching, breath visible. He tore the bun in half, steam curling upward, the spice sharp and comforting. The coffee was strong, grounding.

A man at the neighboring table glanced over, friendly.
“First time here?”

“Is it that obvious?” Tim asked.

The man chuckled. “You’re looking instead of rushing.”

Tim smiled at that. “Just arrived.”

“Then welcome,” the man said. “Winter is good to visitors — if you respect it.”

“That seems to be the rule everywhere up here.”

The man nodded, satisfied, and returned to his paper.

Tim finished his coffee slowly, warmth settling into him from the inside out.

Back at the hotel, he retrieved his suitcase and headed upstairs.

In his room, he set everything down, shrugged out of his coat, and crossed to the window. Below, the street moved steadily — people in pairs and small groups, a dog waiting patiently while its owner adjusted gloves, a child dragging a sled that bumped softly along the sidewalk.

The city wasn’t quiet like other winters he’d known.

It was alive in smaller ways.

This wasn’t an ending to what had come before. It was a continuation — winter speaking in a different register, asking for the same things: attention, presence, willingness.

Tim turned back into the room, already feeling the rhythm of the place settle around him.

Tomorrow would come soon enough.

For now, arrival was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning air carried a sharp, clean bite as Tim stepped out of the hotel, the sky a pale swirl of winter light filtered through high clouds. He adjusted the scarf around his neck, breath fogging faintly as he paused on the front steps. Sweden’s streets were quiet but alive in small ways — a few pedestrians moving deliberately, bundled scarves and wool hats brushing against crisp air, the faint scent of wood smoke curling from chimneys.

He took a deep breath, letting the cold fill his lungs.

After Norway’s icy expanses, this felt almost gentle, yet invigorating. Today, he thought, would be about movement — about legs stretching over snow in a way that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t timed. Today would be snowshoeing.

The guide had given clear instructions on where to meet: a small cabin tucked just beyond the outskirts of town. Tim stepped onto the cobblestone streets, crunching over frost-speckled surfaces, and hailed a taxi. The driver, an older man with a wool cap pulled low over his ears, greeted him with a broad smile.

“Where to?” the man asked, glancing at Tim in the rearview mirror as he pulled away from the curb.

“Just outside town,” Tim replied, pulling the address up on his phone. “There’s a cabin — snowshoeing tour.”

The driver nodded. “Ah! Snowshoeing. You’re new to it?”

“Yes,” Tim said. “First time. Hoping it’ll be… peaceful.”

“Good,” the man said with a soft laugh. “Quiet. Nice for walking. Nice for thinking. And for legs.” He paused, then added, amused, “You will feel tomorrow, yes?”

Tim laughed quietly. “I’ll take the challenge.”

The ride wound through snow-dusted streets, past frozen canals and low wooden homes painted in warm tones. Tim kept his gaze on the passing scenery, watching as the town slowly gave way to open land. Buildings thinned into forest, birch and pine rising steadily, branches bent beneath snow. Birds darted through the trees in quick arcs, and farther out, low hills hinted at quieter, untouched trails.

“Here we are,” the driver said, slowing near a cluster of wooden cabins beside a wide, open clearing. “Have fun. And don’t fall in deep snow. That is not good.” He laughed, clearly pleased with the advice.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim said, smiling as he stepped out.

The air smelled strongly of pine and cold earth. The cabin stood solid against the white landscape, warmth visible through fogged windows. Tim spotted the guide immediately — a woman in a bright orange jacket, clipboard tucked under one arm.

“You must be Tim,” she said, offering a gloved hand. “Glad you made it. First time snowshoeing?”

“Yeah,” Tim admitted. “And I have a feeling it’s going to be… interesting.”

“Interesting is good,” she said, nodding. “It means you’ll remember it. Come on — I’ll get you set up.”

Inside, other participants were gathering, pulling on jackets, adjusting hats, checking boots. Tim found himself beside a young couple laughing as they struggled with oversized snowshoes.

“Feels a bit like learning to walk again,” Tim offered.

They laughed, relief immediate, and the moment settled comfortably.

The guide demonstrated how to strap on the snowshoes, moving deliberately so everyone could follow. Tim mirrored her steps, tightening the bindings over his boots. The equipment felt different from crampons or skis — more forgiving, wider, asking for balance rather than precision.

“Balance is key,” she said. “You’ll step wide at first. That’s normal. Let your arms help. Don’t fight the snow — let it carry you.”

Tim nodded, absorbing every detail, practicing a few careful steps. Outside, snow glinted softly through the windows. He felt a flicker of anticipation — the same quiet tension he’d known before stepping onto ice or unfamiliar ground.

Once everyone was ready, the group spilled into the clearing. Pale winter light stretched across the snow. Tim adjusted his gloves, then stepped forward onto the trail. The snow shifted beneath the wide shoes, supporting his weight in a way that felt unfamiliar but immediately satisfying.

“Take your time,” the guide called from the front. “Find the rhythm. Breathe.”

Tim did. Step. Press. Lift. The snow answered each movement with a soft crunch. His arms swung naturally as his balance settled, and soon his body found the cadence. The forest closed in gently around the trail — birch trunks stark against white, pine branches heavy and still. Tiny tracks crisscrossed the snow where animals had passed earlier.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” someone said beside him.

Tim turned to the young woman from the cabin. “It really is,” he said. “Quiet, but not empty.”

She smiled. “Exactly. Winter shows everything differently.”

They walked in companionable silence, the group’s soft chatter rising and falling behind them. Every sound felt clear — breath, footsteps, wind through branches.

At one pause, Tim turned to the couple he’d chatted with earlier. “Would you mind taking a photo? Just one — proof I survived my first snowshoe trek.”

They laughed and happily obliged. Tim balanced carefully, smiling easily as they snapped the picture.

The trail climbed gently, opening to a view of the valley below. Tim paused, resting lightly on his poles, lungs drawing in cold, clean air. Snowdrifts layered the land in pale blues and whites, a frozen lake shimmering faintly in the distance.

“Let’s take a short break,” the guide said. “Water, stretch. Look around.”

Tim sat on a fallen log, sipping from his bottle. The group shared quiet stories, small laughs. When someone asked about his travels, Tim mentioned Norway — the glaciers, the deliberate steps — and the comparison sparked easy conversation.

“Sounds like good preparation,” someone said.

“It helped,” Tim agreed. “But this is different. Slower. More patient.”

They moved on again, settling into an easy pace. Time blurred into movement — measured steps, shifting light, shared smiles. The cold never turned harsh; it stayed sharp and energizing, a steady presence rather than a challenge.

By the time the cabin came back into view, Tim felt calm, grounded. Inside, warmth welcomed them again. Hands thawed around mugs of herbal tea. Laughter lingered, quiet and unforced, as snow began to drift more steadily outside.

Eventually, the shuttle arrived. Tim stepped back into the cold, snowflakes gathering on his coat as he climbed aboard. The cabin faded behind them as they pulled away, swallowed again by trees and white space.

The ride back into town was quiet. Dusk settled in fully now, streetlights glowing softly against the snow. When the hotel came into view, Tim felt the pleasant weight of the day settle into his body — tired, but satisfied.

He thanked the driver and stepped inside, warmth washing over him. Upstairs, he shed his outer layers, muscles humming with the promise of soreness tomorrow. It was the good kind — earned, grounding.

Outside his window, snow continued to fall, softening the city into something hushed and calm.

The Arctic had been raw and demanding. This had been gentler, subtler — but no less meaningful. Movement. Presence. Shared quiet.

Snowshoeing had given him exactly what he’d hoped for.

And as he settled in for the night, Tim felt steady, ready to see what winter would offer next.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp but softer than the Arctic bite Tim had left behind. He tugged his scarf tighter around his neck, the wool brushing against his chin. Sweden’s streets were quiet in these early hours, the occasional pedestrian hurrying past, scarves pulled high and breath puffing like steam in the cold.

Tim inhaled deeply, tasting the faint hint of smoke from chimneys and the subtle sweetness of frost-laden trees.

Today was different.

Snowshoeing had been meditative — rhythm and movement tied to quiet observation — but today promised interaction of a very different kind.

Reindeer.

Not just seeing them, but feeding them. Learning about them. Maybe even understanding a small slice of Sami culture. Tim could already feel a thrill in the anticipation — animals, nature, culture, all wrapped into one.

The shuttle picked him up promptly. The driver, a cheerful middle-aged woman with a wool cap and a bright orange scarf, greeted him warmly.

“Reindeer farm, yes?” she asked, glancing at him as he settled in the back.

“Yes,” Tim replied, smiling. “I’ve never actually been this close to reindeer before. Excited but… a little nervous.”

Her laugh was light, melodic. “They are gentle, mostly. Curious. Sometimes stubborn. But you’ll enjoy. Very… Swedish winter feeling.”

She tapped the steering wheel lightly and nodded ahead. “Shall we?”

The road wound out of town, cobblestones giving way to snow-speckled asphalt, then to dirt and packed snow as the forest closed in on either side.

Tim pressed his face to the window, letting the landscape roll past like a moving painting — birches dusted in frost, pine branches bending under the weight of snow, the occasional red cabin peeking through the trees.

Birds flitted overhead, tiny black specks against the pale morning light.

The driver pointed occasionally to a hill or a distant ridge. “See that? Fox tracks. Last night, yes. Fresh snow, good for noticing.”

Tim leaned closer, inspecting the thin grooves in the snow beside the road. He snapped a few pictures on his phone, imagining he’d later show them to the group chat — a small, quiet triumph for noticing small things, just like snowshoeing had taught him.

Soon, the forest opened into a clearing.

A low wooden fence outlined the perimeter, and beyond it, a cluster of reindeer grazed on scattered hay. Antlers curved gracefully, dusted lightly with frost, nostrils steaming in the cold air.

Some chewed slowly, ears twitching at distant sounds. Others raised their heads, curious, their dark eyes intelligent and watchful.

“Welcome,” called a man in a thick Sami-style jacket, fur-lined hood framing his face. “I am Lars. This is our herd. Come, we will feed them.”

Tim stepped out of the shuttle, taking in the scent immediately — hay, cold earth, and the faint musk of reindeer, pungent but not unpleasant.

He could hear the scrape of hooves against the snow, the faint crunch of dry grass underfoot, and the soft rustle of antlers brushing against one another. The air smelled alive.

“Hi,” Tim said, extending a gloved hand. “I’m Tim.”

Lars shook it briefly, smiling. “You will have fun. They are calm, but curious. Treat them with respect. They understand voice and movement. No sudden gestures.”

A small group had already gathered — some locals, some tourists — all bundled in winter gear.

Tim noticed a young woman kneeling with a child, laughing as a reindeer nibbled at her scarf end. A man further down the fence held a handful of hay, arms extended, watching as the reindeer gently took it between their teeth.

Tim’s turn came quickly.

Lars handed him a small bundle of hay, thick and slightly damp from morning moisture. Tim’s fingers, warm in gloves, felt the rough texture as he stepped cautiously closer to a large reindeer with majestic, frost-flecked antlers.

“Just hold it out,” Lars advised. “Let him come. Watch his eyes.”

The reindeer sniffed, head tilting, nostrils flaring.

Tim froze for a moment, captivated by the dark, expressive eyes, then slowly extended the hay. The animal took it delicately, teeth closing around the strands, and Tim laughed softly.

The sound seemed to please the reindeer, which chewed deliberately before lifting its head to regard him.

“Perfect,” Lars said. “See? Gentle. You are learning quickly.”

Tim’s confidence grew as he fed a few more, moving along the fence line. Another smaller reindeer approached, sniffing his boot, then his gloved hand.

Tim straightened, holding his ground, watching carefully. It stepped back — then reached again, encouraged by the smell of hay.

“May I take a photo?” he asked a fellow participant, a young man holding a camera. “I want one for later — to share with my friends.”

“Sure thing,” the man replied, adjusting the lens.

Tim posed carefully, hands out, holding hay toward a patient reindeer, smiling genuinely. The photo clicked, and he thanked the man, tucking the moment away for later.

Lars moved along the enclosure, explaining the herd. “Reindeer are important to Sami culture. They provide milk, meat, transport. Every herd knows its humans — they trust voices, touch, routine.”

Tim listened, fascinated. “So they really recognize you?”

“Yes,” Lars replied. “Even strangers, if patient and gentle. They sense calm. Do not rush them.”

The group moved together, feeding and gently petting the animals under Lars’ guidance.

Tim noticed the texture of the fur — soft in some places, coarse in others, warm beneath his gloves. Breath fogged the air as the reindeer exhaled, small clouds drifting lazily upward.

“Want to try throwing hay over their backs?” Lars asked. “They will shake it down. Like snowfall.”

Tim laughed and tossed a small bundle. A reindeer flicked its head, sending hay scattering into the snow. A few flakes dusted his coat.

“Like a snowstorm,” Tim said, grinning.

Nearby, the young couple from the snowshoeing trip had joined him.

“We recognized you!” the woman said. “Looks like snowshoeing muscles came in handy.”

Tim laughed. “Maybe just the lungs. I think these guys will challenge me in a different way, though.”

They lingered, feeding and laughing at small mishaps — a reindeer tugging too hard, another nudging playfully, a few pawing gently at the snow.

Tim realized how relaxed he felt, how easily conversation flowed — small stories about travel, winter, Norway versus Sweden.

After a while, Lars gathered them around a small fire pit for warm tea and traditional Swedish pastries.

Tim held his hands toward the heat as steam curled into the cold air. They sipped and nibbled quietly, sharing smiles and comments about favorite animals. Voices murmured softly, punctuated by the crunch of hooves and an occasional call from the herd.

By mid-afternoon, the group returned to the shuttle.

Tim lingered, giving one last gentle pat to a large reindeer whose antlers arched gracefully over the fence. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For the company… and for the lesson.”

The ride back to the hotel was quieter. The hum of the shuttle blended with distant birds and the soft scrape of snow beneath the tires.

Tim watched frost glint across fields and forest edges, the day settling into him — muscles pleasantly tired, mind calm.

Back at the hotel, he shed his outer layers, cheeks flushed from cold and exhilaration. He sank into a chair with a mug of hot chocolate, letting the warmth soak in.

Outside, Sweden’s winter continued quietly. The sun dipped lower, casting soft amber across rooftops.

The day had been gentle and immersive — a reminder of patience, observation, and quiet delight in shared experiences. A bridge between solitude and connection.

Tim leaned back, watching snow begin to fall again, flakes drifting lazily onto the streets below.

Tomorrow promised new adventures.

But tonight, he let himself savor this one — full, present, and quietly exhilarated by the gentle giants of Sweden’s winter.

Chapter Text

Tim sat in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby, the low hum of the heater blending with the occasional scrape of boots on snow-dusted tiles. The windows were fogged at the edges, softening the winter light spilling in from the street outside.

A few travelers passed by, bundled in scarves and coats, cheeks pink from the cold. A steaming mug of coffee warmed his hands. For a moment, he simply breathed — in roasted beans, pine-scented greenery from the lobby decorations, and the faint tang of snow drifting in each time the door opened.

A young family shuffled past. The little girl stared wide-eyed at a Christmas tree display, pointing urgently at ornaments while whispering to her parents.

Nearby, an older couple shared a plate of pastries, leaning close, laughing softly over something private.

Tim watched it all — these small, ordinary moments — grounding in a way the vast, echoing quiet of the Arctic never quite had.

He thumbed his phone, hesitated, then opened the group chat.

It had been a few days since he’d mailed the postcard from Norway. Long enough to wonder if it had been lost. Long enough to second-guess whether it mattered at all.

He typed anyway.

Tim:
Hi everyone. Just checking in — did the postcard and photos make it?

The reply notifications stacked quickly.

Lucy:
Yes! I got it — postcard and photos. You can’t just casually mail something like that and not expect commentary 😲
How are you doing?

Angela:
FINALLY. I was starting to think Scandinavian mail had personal beef with us 😜
Also… rude of you to send those views while I’m at work.

Nolan:
Confirmed received. Postcard survived transit. Photos did not survive my jealousy.

Nyla:
I saw them too. The lighting alone? Unreal. You’re officially ruining winter for the rest of us.

Wade:
Got everything. Looks like you’re settling in just fine. Good to hear from you, Tim.

Tim smiled, lifting his mug for a sip as warmth spread through his fingers. The familiar cadence of the group — teasing layered over genuine concern — loosened something in his chest.

Around him, the lobby shifted quietly.

A server passed with a tray of cinnamon rolls, the scent briefly sweet and rich. Near the door, someone stomped snow from their boots, shaking out a scarf before moving deeper inside.

He typed back.

Tim:
Glad it made it. I’m good. Sweden now — Lapland specifically. Just got back from feeding reindeer.

There was a beat.

Then—

Angela:
I’m sorry. Back up.
Did you say feeding reindeer???

Lucy:
Wait, actual reindeer? Like… antlers, snow, Christmas-movie reindeer?

Nolan:
This feels like information you should’ve led with.

Nyla:
PLEASE tell me you took photos.

Wade:
You okay? Those things are bigger than people think.

Tim let out a quiet laugh, shoulders easing as he scrolled through their messages.

Tim:
Actual reindeer. Very real. Very large. No injuries so far.

Angela:
“No injuries so far” is doing a lot of work there 😆

Lucy:
Hold on — you fed them? With your hands?
Tim, please tell me there were gloves involved.

Nolan:
I’m picturing a very serious safety briefing followed by chaos.

Nyla:
If there isn’t photographic evidence, I refuse to believe this happened.

Tim tapped into his camera roll and found the photo — him mid-laugh, arms extended with hay, a massive reindeer looming close. He sent it before he could overthink it.

Tim:
Proof. Before you all accuse me of making it up.

The chat exploded.

Angela:
OH MY GOD 😭
Your face — you look like you’re negotiating with it.

Lucy:
That reindeer is majestic. And you look… cautiously delighted.
Did you touch it? How did the fur feel?

Nolan:
That expression is 100% “I trust this animal but I’m not sure why.”

Nyla:
I cannot stop staring at this. It’s enormous.
Did it lick your hand??

Wade:
Impressive. How cold were your fingers afterward?

Tim shook his head, smiling as he typed.

Tim:
Yes, I touched it. Fur’s soft in places, coarse in others.
No licking — just a lot of sniffing.
And fingers survived. Gloves did their job, but the wind definitely tried its best.

Angela:
“Wind tried its best” — add that to your memoir.

Lucy:
I’m really glad you were warm.
Also… I want to go there now. This officially made my day.

Nolan:
Balanced fear-to-fun ratio. Solid outing.

Nyla:
You look genuinely happy. That makes me weirdly emotional.

Wade:
Sounds like a good day. You earned it.

Tim leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the window.

Snow had started falling again — light, lazy flakes catching the glow of the streetlamps outside. The lobby felt warmer now. Fuller. As if the conversation itself had filled the space around him, even as it stretched across continents.

Tim:
Appreciate that. I’ll send more photos when I can — and another postcard soon.
How’s everyone doing back home?

The replies came in overlapping waves.

Angela complained about work. Nolan offered dry, understated updates. Nyla spiraled into vacation envy. Lucy checked in on his gloves again, reminding him — gently — to rest.

Tim read every word.

He stayed there a while longer, mug cradled in both hands, letting the warmth settle — coffee, familiarity, the quiet comfort of being known.

When he finally stood and gathered his things, stepping back out into the Swedish winter, the cold didn’t feel quite as sharp.

Connection had a way of doing that.

Chapter Text

Tim zipped his jacket all the way up before stepping out of the hotel, the cold greeting him immediately — sharp, clean, and unmistakably Lapland. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the front drive, breath puffing white as he exhaled. A shuttle idled nearby, engine humming softly, frost clinging to its windows.

He climbed aboard with a small group of other guests, most of them bundled in bright winter gear, chatter already bubbling despite the early hour. The ride out of Rovaniemi was quiet but scenic, the city thinning into long stretches of snow-draped forest. Pines stood tall and dark against the pale sky, branches heavy with frost. The sun hovered low, casting a soft gold glow that barely cleared the treetops.

After a short drive, the shuttle slowed and turned down a narrower road before pulling into a small clearing.

A wooden sign half-buried in snow read: Norvajärvi.

Tim stepped down onto packed snow, the cold seeping up through his boots as he took in the sight of the lake — a vast, frozen expanse stretching out beneath the open sky, its surface smooth and white, broken only by faint tracks and distant fishing huts. The air felt still, almost reverent.

“Alright, everyone,” the guide called out, her voice bright and easy. She wore a vivid blue parka that stood out against the snow. “Welcome to Norvajärvi. This lake’s been taking care of people for a long time.”

Tim trudged across the snow-crusted parking area, boots crunching steadily as he followed her toward the ice. He tugged his gloves tighter, feeling the cold bite through the fabric. Around him, a small group of fellow adventurers laughed and joked, their breaths blooming into the crisp morning air.

“First time?” the guide asked, glancing back at him with a grin.

Tim nodded, a little self-conscious. “Yeah. Never actually ice fished before. Hoping I don’t embarrass myself.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry. The lake is patient. The fish, though — unpredictable. That’s part of the fun.”

The group spread out onto the frozen surface, each person handed a small wooden sled stacked with gear — buckets, short fishing rods, thermoses, and augers for drilling through the thick ice. Tim slid his sled forward, the runners rasping softly, grateful that at least half the group seemed to know what they were doing.

“Here, let me show you,” a young man called from nearby, demonstrating how to brace the auger and twist. Tim copied the motion, muscles engaging as the blade bit down. A satisfying crunch followed as the ice gave way.

“Not bad,” the man said approvingly. “You’ve got the rhythm.”

Tim laughed. “Feels like I’m one wrong move away from falling in.”

“Half the fun,” a young woman chimed in from the next hole over. “Builds character.”

“Character or frostbite?” Tim shot back, smiling.

“Both,” the guide said easily. “Respect the lake, and it won’t bite.”

Soon rods were lowered into the dark water below, the lake settling into a quiet hum of anticipation. Small jokes passed between holes, bets placed over who’d catch the biggest fish.

“I’m calling it now,” the young man said. “First catch is mine.”

“You owe me hot chocolate if it’s tiny,” the woman replied.

Tim grinned, lowering his line. “I’ll settle for anything that doesn’t steal my bait.”

Minutes passed.

Then—

“Uh,” Tim said carefully. “I think… I’ve got something?”

“Easy!” the woman warned. “Slow and steady.”

A small silver fish broke the surface, flashing briefly in the sunlight.

“Yes!” Tim laughed. “That counts, right?”

“Absolutely,” the man said. “First catch! That’s how legends begin.”

“Legend of slipping into Norvajärvi,” Tim muttered, earning a round of laughter that carried across the ice.

The morning unfolded in easy moments — teasing, shared thermoses, the occasional fish, sunlight scattering across the frozen lake like glass. Birds crossed overhead, distant and small, and Tim found himself quietly absorbing it all: the stillness, the company, the way the cold sharpened everything rather than dulling it.

Before packing up, Tim pulled out his phone. “Group photo. Proof we survived.”

They gathered close, cheeks red, smiles genuine. The timer clicked. When the photo appeared, everyone leaned in.

“We look… capable,” the woman said.

“Or mildly frozen,” the man added.

Tim smiled. “Perfect.”

They trudged back toward the shuttle together, boots heavy, bodies pleasantly worn. Snow was stamped from soles before people climbed aboard, jackets loosened just enough to breathe. Someone passed around the last of the hot chocolate. Laughter lingered, softer now, dulled by warmth and fatigue.

The shuttle pulled away, Norvajärvi slipping back behind a curve of trees, the frozen lake swallowed once more by forest and quiet.

Tim claimed a window seat, resting his head lightly against the cold glass. Pines slid past in steady rhythm, their frost-lined branches glowing faintly beneath the low sun. Conversation gradually faded into comfortable silence as heat returned to fingers and ears.

He glanced at the photo on his phone again — the group huddled together on the ice, unguarded smiles, cheeks flushed red from cold and laughter. It wasn’t perfect. That was why it mattered.

By the time the first buildings of Rovaniemi appeared, Tim felt settled in the best way — muscles loose, mind quiet, the kind of tired that didn’t ask for anything except rest.

The shuttle slowed near the hotel, tires crunching softly against packed snow. Tim stepped back into the cold, sharper now after the warmth, but it didn’t bite the same way.

Norvajärvi stayed behind him — its surface smooth, silent, and unbothered — holding one more shared memory beneath the ice.

Chapter Text

The hotel lobby was warmer than he expected — not just heat, but the kind of warmth that sank in slowly, loosening muscles that had spent the day braced against cold. Tim sat in a low-backed chair near the window, jacket draped over the armrest, boots drying on a rubber mat nearby. A mug of coffee rested on the small table beside him, steam curling lazily upward as it cooled.

Outside, dusk had already begun to settle in. The sky shifted toward a muted blue-gray, clouds low and heavy, while streetlights flickered on one by one. Their glow reflected softly off the snow-packed sidewalks, casting long, blurred shadows of people passing by.

Tim flipped through his notebook absently. He wasn’t really writing — just touching the pages, grounding himself in the habit. A few short notes from earlier stared back at him. Norvajärvi. Stillness. Laughter carried across ice. He closed it again, resting his palm on the cover.

Ice fishing had been quieter than he’d imagined. No dramatic rush. No constant action. But it had been social in a way he hadn’t expected — easy jokes traded between holes in the ice, shared thermoses passed around without hesitation, the kind of casual connection that came from standing side by side in the cold, waiting for something to happen.

“Hey — Tim, right?”

He looked up.

Two familiar faces stood a few feet away, jackets already back on, hats pulled low. Brian and Keith. Ice fishing guys. Brian’s beard looked even more unruly now that it had thawed slightly, curls catching the lobby light. Keith stood straighter, hands shoved into his coat sleeves, eyes alert and curious like he was always half-observing the room.

“Yeah,” Tim said, smiling as he straightened in his chair. “Hey.”

Brian hooked a thumb toward the entrance. “We were just heading out. There’s a bar a few streets over — food, drinks, nothing fancy. Locals mostly. Thought we’d see if you wanted to join.”

Tim blinked, surprised — then felt it. That small, unexpected spark of being invited. No planning. No expectation. Just an open door.

“Dinner and drinks?” he asked.

Keith grinned. “And warmth. Mostly warmth.”

Tim laughed softly, closing his notebook and standing. “Yeah. That actually sounds great.”

⸻

The walk was short but brisk, the three of them moving easily down the softly lit street. Snow crunched beneath their boots in a steady rhythm, breath fogging with each exhale. The quiet was broken only by distant voices and the muted hum of traffic somewhere farther off.

Brian set the pace — unhurried, confident, like he knew every crack in the sidewalk. Keith walked beside Tim, hands swinging slightly as he talked.

“So,” Tim asked as they fell into step, “how do you two know each other?”

Brian chuckled. “Work, originally. Outdoor programs up north. Survival courses, winter navigation, stuff like that.”

“Long winters either make you friends or drive you crazy,” Keith added.

“Friends won,” Brian said easily.

Keith nodded. “We’ve been doing trips like this for years now. Ice fishing, hiking, dog sledding — whatever excuse we can find to disappear for a bit.”

Tim nodded, understanding that instinct immediately. “Where’re you both from?”

“Brian’s local,” Keith said, nodding toward him. “Born not far from here.”

“Outside Jokkmokk,” Brian clarified. “Family’s been in the region a long time.”

“And you?” Tim asked Keith.

“Canada,” Keith replied. “Toronto originally. Moved over for work. Sweden kind of stuck.”

Tim smiled faintly. “Yeah. I get that.”

Brian glanced sideways at him. “What about you? You don’t sound local.”

“U.S.,” Tim said. “Los Angeles.”

Keith let out a low whistle. “That’s a long way from ice fishing.”

“Very,” Tim agreed.

“And what do you do back home?” Brian asked.

Tim didn’t hesitate. “Police. LAPD. Sergeant.”

There was a brief pause — not awkward, just a shift. Brian’s expression changed slightly, curiosity sharpening.

“Damn,” Keith said. “That’s… intense.”

Tim shrugged lightly. “Different kind of cold.”

Brian nodded slowly. “Makes sense why you handle quiet well.”

Tim didn’t answer that. He didn’t need to.

⸻

The bar was small and welcoming, tucked between two older buildings. Warm amber light spilled through the windows, and the door released a wave of heat and sound as they stepped inside.

Wood-paneled walls glowed under hanging lights. Scarves and hats were piled over chair backs. A low hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by laughter and the clink of glasses. Swedish rolled easily off tongues at the bar, occasionally switching to English without pause.

They found a table near the back. Slush pooled beneath their boots as they settled in.

A woman behind the bar glanced over. “Hej hej,” she called easily.

Brian answered without thinking. “Hej.”

Tim caught it, filed it away.

“First round’s on me,” Brian said, shrugging out of his jacket. “You drinking?”

Tim considered it, then nodded. “Yeah. Surprise me.”

Keith laughed. “Brave choice.”

When the drinks arrived — a dark stout for Brian, something clear and sharp-smelling for Keith, and a golden ale for Tim — they clinked glasses lightly.

“To not falling through the ice,” Brian said.

“I’ll drink to that,” Tim replied.

The beer was crisp, slightly bitter, warming on the way down.

They ordered food soon after. The server recommended reindeer stew. Tim paused, then nodded.

“Seems fitting,” he said. “Might as well commit.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Full cultural immersion.”

“Exactly.”

As they waited, a group at the next table leaned over. Two older men and a woman, all locals by the sound of their Swedish.

“You ice fish today?” the woman asked in accented English, nodding toward their boots.

“Yeah,” Tim said. “Survived.”

One of the men laughed. “That’s the goal.”

Brian lifted his glass. “Skål.”

They echoed it. “Skål.”

Tim repeated it a second later, a little slower.

“Good,” the woman said approvingly. “You learn fast.”

“Skål,” Tim said again, earning a grin.

The food arrived steaming — rich stew, root vegetables, thick bread on the side. Tim took a careful first bite.

Then another.

“Okay,” he admitted. “That’s… really good.”

Brian grinned. “Right? Comfort food.”

One of the older men leaned over again. “You say tack,” he told Tim, tapping the table. “Means thank you.”

“Tack,” Tim repeated.

“Bra,” the man said. Good.

Conversation stretched. Brian talked about teaching kids how to read ice safely. Keith talked about working remotely and chasing winter. The locals chimed in, correcting pronunciation, teaching him small words.

“Cold is kallt,” the woman said.

“Kallt,” Tim repeated.

“And very cold?” Keith asked.

“Jättekallt,” she said, laughing.

Tim smiled. “That one I’ll remember.”

They talked about snow, about travel, about how winter changed people. Tim answered questions about LA — traffic, heat, palm trees — and found himself laughing more than he expected.

No one pushed. No one asked about things he didn’t want to explain.

Later, as plates were cleared and the bar grew louder, Brian leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

“Glad we ran into you,” he said. “Trips are better when you don’t do everything alone.”

Tim nodded, feeling it settle in his chest. “Yeah. They are.”

⸻

When they finally stepped back outside, the night felt softer somehow. The cold pressed in, but it didn’t bite the same way. Snow reflected the streetlights, the city humming quietly around them.

They walked back toward the hotel together, hands tucked into pockets, steps slower now.

At the corner, they stopped.

“Take care, Tim,” Keith said. “Maybe we’ll cross paths again.”

“Yeah,” Tim replied. “I’d like that.”

They parted with easy nods and small waves.

Back in his room later, Tim stood at the window, city lights glowing against snow.

Sometimes, adventure wasn’t ice or distance or extremes.

Sometimes, it was just saying yes when someone asked if you wanted to come along.

Chapter Text

⸻

Tim woke slowly, the way you did when your body wasn’t bracing for anything.

Light filtered through the curtains in a thin, silvery wash. It caught on the edge of the desk, the back of the chair, the crease in the blanket near his knees.

The room felt still but not silent — the kind of quiet layered with life.

Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and shut. Footsteps passed, unhurried. From below came the faint clink of dishes, then a burst of laughter that faded just as quickly.

He lay there longer than necessary, staring at the ceiling, breathing evenly.

No alarm.
No radio chatter in his ear.
No calendar dictating the shape of the day.

Just morning.

Eventually, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. His joints protested faintly, then settled.

The cold hadn’t reached this far inside, but it lingered at the edges — a reminder of where he was. He showered, dressed in layers without thinking too hard about it, and headed downstairs, drawn by the familiar pull of coffee.

The hotel lobby was already awake.

Warm, in that gradual, enveloping way that seeped into tired muscles rather than jolting them. Wood-paneled walls held the heat. Soft lighting kept everything gentle.

A couple sat near the front windows with a folded map spread between them, fingers tracing routes as they murmured to each other.

Near the door, a family clustered together, trying to wrangle gloves onto small hands. The kids vibrated with barely-contained energy.

By the desk, a man leaned casually against the counter, chatting with the clerk like they’d known each other for years.

Tim poured himself a mug of coffee and claimed a chair by the window.

Outside, snow drifted lazily from a pale sky, settling on the street in soft layers. People moved at an easy pace — bundled, purposeful, unhurried.

Just boots crunching lightly. Scarves pulled high. Quiet conversations carried on the cold air.

After breakfast, he pulled on his coat and stepped outside.

The cold hit immediately — sharp and clean. It bit at his cheeks before easing into something bracing rather than punishing. The kind of cold that reminded you to breathe deeper, move slower.

He welcomed it.

He walked without a destination at first, letting his feet decide. The city opened around him in narrow streets and wider crossings. Shop windows glowed softly against the winter light — candles, wool, stacks of books arranged just so. Signs creaked faintly in the breeze.

A few blocks on, he noticed the sign.

Hand-painted. Simple. An arrow pointing down a side street.

Winter Market — Inomhus.

Indoor.

That made sense.

He followed it.

The building itself was old — stone and timber, solid in a way that suggested it had been standing through a lot of winters. Heat spilled out as soon as he stepped inside, fogging his glasses for a second as he pushed the door open.

The contrast hit immediately.

Warmth. Sound. The low hum of voices layered together.

The market filled a long hall, stalls arranged in loose rows beneath wooden beams. Strings of soft yellow lights were draped overhead, reflecting off snow-melted floors and polished tables. Coats hung from hooks near the entrance, mittens tucked into pockets, hats shoved under arms.

People lingered here. Properly lingered.

Wool scarves in deep reds, forest greens, and muted grays hung neatly from racks, their fibers thick and soft. Hand-knit mittens were stacked in careful piles, no two quite the same. Woven bands patterned in bright blues and yellows were coiled beside them, each tagged with a handwritten note about where it had been made.

The air smelled like bread. Smoke. Sugar. Coffee.

At one stall, slabs of smoked fish rested on dark boards, glossy and rich-looking. At another, candles molded into simple shapes burned steadily, the scent faintly sweet — pine, honey, something herbal he couldn’t quite place.

Tim moved slowly, unhurried, letting himself look.

At a nearby table, a woman caught his eye and smiled, holding out a small wooden stick dipped in honey.

“Try,” she said. “From the north.”

Tim accepted it. The honey was rich and floral, almost smoky, warming his tongue instantly.

He blinked. “That’s… really good.”

She laughed, pleased. “Cold makes it sweeter. Kallt, yes? But good.”

“Kallt,” Tim repeated carefully. “Cold.”

“Good!” She nodded approvingly. “And tack is thank you.”

“Tack,” he said, smiling.

She beamed like he’d just passed a test.

He bought a small jar — the label handwritten, the glass warm from the room — and tucked it carefully into his bag.

At another stall, an older man carved small figures from wood.

The knife moved in steady, practiced strokes, curls of wood collecting at the edge of the table. Tim stopped to watch, drawn in by the quiet rhythm of it.

The figure took shape slowly — antlers, legs, a familiar curve.

“You like?” the man asked, glancing up.

“Yeah,” Tim said. “You’ve been doing this a long time.”

The man smiled faintly. “Most of my life. My father too.”

He held up the finished piece — a reindeer. Simple, balanced, full of quiet character.

Tim didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take that one.”

As they exchanged payment, the man studied him for a moment.

“You are not from here.”

“No,” Tim said easily. “Just visiting.”

“Good place to visit,” the man replied. “Winter shows you the truth of things.”

Tim slipped the reindeer into his pocket. The smooth wood felt warm now, already holding the heat of the building.

At the food counter, he joined a short line.

Tourists chatted behind him in English, comparing how many layers they’d underestimated. Ahead of him, a local couple debated quietly in Swedish, pointing at a chalkboard menu without any rush at all.

He ordered what the woman behind the counter recommended.

It was handed over wrapped in paper, steam curling up immediately.

“Careful,” she warned. “Very warm.”

“Varsågod,” she added with a smile.

He found a high table near the wall and ate slowly, watching the room.

A child pressed their nose against a display case of carved animals. Two friends leaned shoulder to shoulder, sharing coffee and laughing softly. A vendor waved to someone across the room, calling out a greeting like they’d just spotted an old friend.

It felt full.

Human.

Nearby, a small group of locals stood around a tall table, cups in hand. One of them noticed Tim lingering and gestured him over.

“Coffee?” the woman asked.

Tim hesitated only a second. “Sure.”

They made room easily, handing him a cup. The coffee was strong and hot, sweetened just enough.

“Where are you from?” someone asked.

“U.S.,” Tim replied. “California.”

A ripple of mild surprise.

“That is very different,” another said, smiling. “You like winter?”

Tim considered it. “I think I’m learning to.”

They laughed, nodding.

“You are doing it right,” the first woman said. “Slow. No rush. Lagom.”

“Lagom,” Tim repeated.

She nodded. “Just enough.”

The word settled somewhere solid.

He stayed longer than he’d planned. Bought a knit hat he didn’t strictly need — thick, dark, practical — because the woman selling it smiled like she approved of his choice.

Eventually, the warmth made him drowsy in the best way. He pulled his coat back on and stepped outside again, the cold sharp but manageable now.

The walk back to the hotel was short.

Inside, warmth wrapped around him once more. He settled into a chair in the lobby, setting his bag down, letting out a long breath.

He reached into his pocket, turning the small wooden reindeer over once before setting it beside his coffee.

This was the kind of day he hadn’t known he needed.

No adrenaline.
No intensity.
Just presence.

Later, as the light outside softened toward evening, he sent a single photo to the group chat — the glow of lights inside the market, people moving through warmth while winter waited outside.

No explanation. No commentary.

He leaned back, coffee warming his hands.

He wasn’t running toward anything.
He wasn’t avoiding anything, either.

He was simply here — curious, open, quietly content.

And for now, that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Tim sat in the hotel lobby with his coat folded beside him, a half-finished cup of tea cooling on the low table in front of him. The space was quiet in that evening way — soft lighting, muted voices, the occasional rush of cold air when the front door opened and closed again. Snow clung to boots and hems, melting into dark, irregular shapes on the tile.

The lobby smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and wood polish, layered beneath the ever-present warmth of coffee. Somewhere behind the desk, a machine hissed softly, then went quiet again. The sound felt distant, like it belonged to someone else’s evening.

Tim leaned back in the chair, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, hands loosely clasped in his lap. He wasn’t waiting for anything. That was the strange part.

His bag was mostly packed upstairs. Not zipped. Not final. Just ready enough. The kind of packed that meant he wouldn’t forget anything important — but also wouldn’t mind reopening it if he needed to.

Leaving tomorrow didn’t feel heavy. It felt… settled.

Not relief. Not excitement. Just a calm understanding that this chapter was finishing where it was supposed to.

He picked up the small brochure again, smoothing his thumb over the crease like he had earlier. Sauna. Cold plunge. Harbor view. Simple words, clean design. No exaggeration, no promises it couldn’t keep.

One last thing.

The idea had landed quietly, without urgency. Not something he needed to do — just something that felt right to end on.

Tim stood, slipping his phone into his pocket, shrugging into his coat. The weight of it was familiar, comforting. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, tugged his gloves on, and stepped back out into the cold.

⸻

The street outside was quiet in that late-evening way winter demanded.

Snow muted everything — footsteps, distant traffic, even the wind, which moved more like a suggestion than a force. The cold pressed in immediately, sharp and clean, but not cruel. Tim inhaled deeply, the air filling his lungs with something bracing and almost sweet.

He pulled his hat down, tucked his hands into his pockets, and started walking.

The harbor wasn’t far. He’d checked the map earlier, traced the route with his finger like it mattered. Tonight, he let instinct handle it.

Streetlights cast warm halos onto the snow, each pool of light briefly illuminating parked cars, bicycle racks half-buried beneath drifts, shop windows already dark for the night. Reflections shimmered faintly on glass, doubling the lights and making the street feel longer than it was.

A bakery he’d passed that morning glowed faintly inside, lights still on even though the door was locked. The smell of bread lingered stubbornly in the air, as if refusing to leave just because the day was over.

He passed couples walking close together, shoulders brushing beneath thick coats. A man walking a dog bundled nearly as much as he was, the animal’s tail wagging lazily as it padded through the snow. A group of friends laughed too loudly as they passed, breath puffing white into the air, their voices echoing briefly before being swallowed by the night.

No one hurried.

Tim noticed that more than anything — the absence of urgency. People moved because they were going somewhere, not because they were trying to outrun something.

The water announced itself before he saw it.

The air shifted subtly, growing colder and sharper, carrying the faint mineral scent of ice and salt. The street widened, buildings falling back as the harbor opened up ahead. Lights reflected off dark water and broken ice like fractured stars, shimmering and rearranging themselves with every ripple.

Tim slowed.

There was something grounding about walking toward it instead of being delivered straight there. No shuttle. No guide. Just his own steps crunching softly beneath him.

Each one felt deliberate. Earned.

By the time the low wooden building came into view, steam lifting softly from its roof, his body was already awake. His breath had found a steady rhythm. His shoulders had loosened without him realizing it.

The cold no longer felt like something to brace against — just something to move through.

He adjusted the strap of his bag, squared his shoulders, and crossed the last stretch toward the door.

⸻

The sauna sat near the water, a low wooden building pressed up against the edge of the harbor, humble and unassuming. Steam curled faintly from the roof, barely visible against the darkening sky.

Inside, warmth wrapped around him almost immediately.

It wasn’t a sudden heat — more like a gradual welcome, seeping in through layers of clothing, settling deep into muscle and bone. The scent of wood, clean and resinous, mixed with heat and something faintly mineral.

The changing area was softly lit, wood-paneled and orderly. Locals moved through the space with easy familiarity — boots placed neatly against the wall, towels slung over shoulders, quiet conversations murmured without urgency. No one looked at him twice. No one hurried him along.

Tim changed, folding his clothes with the same care he always did, then followed the gentle flow toward the sauna room.

The door opened.

Heat closed in around him.

It was immediate but not aggressive — a full-bodied warmth that wrapped rather than struck. Wooden benches rose in tiers, worn smooth by decades of use. Bodies were spaced comfortably apart, close enough to share the heat, far enough to keep the quiet intact.

Someone poured water over the stones.

The hiss was sharp and alive, steam blooming upward and rolling across the ceiling before settling back down. Tim felt it kiss his skin, a deeper heat that sank past surface level, loosening something behind his ribs.

He chose a middle bench and sat, elbows resting on his knees, forearms loose. His eyes drifted shut without effort as the warmth began working into his shoulders, down his spine, into his hips.

Across from him, a man with graying hair and an easy posture studied him for a moment before giving a small nod.
“First time?”

Tim opened his eyes and smiled faintly. “That obvious?”

The man chuckled. “You’re sitting like you’re waiting to see if the heat will argue back.”

A woman a few benches over laughed softly. “Everyone does the first time.”

Tim exhaled. “Feels like I should be doing something.”

“That’s the mistake,” the woman said gently. “You let it happen.”

Another man leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. “Sauna teaches patience. You don’t control it. You stay. It does the rest.”

Tim nodded slowly, letting that settle.

They talked quietly — voices kept low out of respect for the space. Where people were from. How long they’d been coming here. One woman mentioned she came every week, no matter the weather. A man said his grandfather had brought him here when he was a child.

“Winter makes people honest,” the older man said. “You can’t pretend you’re comfortable when you’re not.”

“That’s why summer people don’t understand it,” someone else added. “Too many distractions.”

Tim listened more than he spoke, the cadence of their voices blending with the soft creak of wood and the occasional hiss of steam.

After a while, someone stood, stretching their arms overhead.
“Cold plunge.”

The word moved through the room like a ripple.

A few groans. A few laughs. One dramatic sigh.

Outside, the air hit him like a wall.

Sharp, immediate, unforgiving. The harbor stretched out in front of them — dark water, jagged ice framing a narrow opening where steam rose faintly.

Tim stood at the edge, heart already thudding, breath fogging thick and fast.

A woman beside him glanced over. “Slow breath. In through the nose. Long out.”

He nodded, gripping the ladder, lowering himself in.

The cold stole everything at once.

Air. Thought. Comfort.

It slammed through him, shocking his system into raw awareness. His hands clenched hard enough to ache as he forced his breathing steady, counting silently like an anchor.

One.
Two.
Three.

Then he was out again, hauling himself up, water streaming from his skin, heart pounding wildly. Laughter broke free from his chest before he could stop it — startled, genuine.

“Oh— wow,” he breathed.

The woman grinned. “That’s it. That’s why we come back.”

Back inside, the heat felt unreal — almost too much at first. Tim sat again, this time leaning back against the wall, eyes half-lidded as his body recalibrated.

Warmth sank in deeper now, spreading outward from his core, slowing his pulse, quieting his thoughts.

A man beside him glanced over. “You visiting?”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “From the States.”

“Vacation?”

He thought about it, then shook his head slightly. “More like a year on the road. Taking my time.”

There was no surprise — just thoughtful nods.

“That’s good,” the woman said. “People forget how.”

“Where next?” someone asked.

“Finland,” Tim replied. “Tomorrow.”

A smile. “Different cold. Same lesson.”

They sat together a while longer, conversation drifting — travel, winter, places that let you breathe instead of asking something from you.

When the session ended, Tim dressed slowly, body loose, mind clear. Outside, the cold didn’t bite the same way.

⸻

Back in the hotel lobby later, he settled into a chair near the window, tea warm in his hands.

Tomorrow, he’d move on.

Not home.

Just forward.

Finland was next.

And for now, this moment was enough.

Chapter Text

Tim stood in the middle of the hotel room, one hand resting on the edge of the bed, the other on his open suitcase.

He wasn’t rushing. There was no need to.

Clothes were folded neatly inside — layers he’d learned mattered here. Thermal shirts. Wool socks. A sweater he’d bought halfway through the week because the cold had taught him something his California instincts hadn’t. Toiletries tucked into the side pocket. Charger, notebook, passport checked once, then checked again, not out of anxiety but habit.

He pressed down on the zipper and pulled it closed, the sound final but not heavy.

His backpack sat on the chair by the window, already packed. Camera. Water bottle. Gloves shoved into the top pocket like he might need them at a moment’s notice. He lifted it, testing the weight, then slung it over one shoulder and looked around the room one last time.

It had been temporary from the start. Neutral walls. Clean lines. A space meant for passing through.

And still — it had held him.

Tim switched off the lamp, grabbed his coat, and headed downstairs.

⸻

The hotel lobby was quieter than it had been all week.

Early morning light filtered through the tall windows, pale and clean, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. The heater hummed softly, steady and reliable, and the faint scent of coffee lingered in the air — familiar now, comforting in a way Tim hadn’t expected when he first arrived.

His bag rested at his feet as he took a seat near the window, hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee. Outside, the city was waking up slowly. A couple of locals passed by, scarves wrapped high, boots crunching against the snow-dusted sidewalk. A delivery truck idled at the corner. Somewhere down the street, a door opened and closed, laughter briefly spilling into the cold before disappearing again.

Sweden had settled into him quietly.

Not with grand gestures or sweeping moments. Not with anything he could point to and say, this is it. It had come in pieces — shared benches, nods from strangers, warmth offered without intrusion. Conversations that didn’t pry. Silences that didn’t feel awkward.

The kind of place that didn’t ask him to be anything other than present.

He exhaled, slow and steady.

The sauna from the night before still lingered in his muscles — that deep, pleasant looseness — and the memory of the cold plunge followed close behind. Sharp. Bracing. Alive. He smiled faintly at the thought.

It had startled him, sure. But it had also cleared something out. Forced his attention inward. Demanded breath, count, focus.

A reminder that discomfort didn’t always mean danger.
Sometimes it meant clarity.

Tim checked the time, stood, and slung his bag over his shoulder. The front desk clerk looked up and smiled, recognition easy now.

“Leaving today?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Tim said. “Headed east.”

“Finland?” she guessed, like it was the obvious next step.

He nodded. “That’s the plan.”

She wished him a safe journey. Simple. Genuine.

He stepped back out into the cold.

⸻

The ride toward the station was smooth, quiet.

Snow-lined streets slipped past the window as Tim leaned back, watching the city soften as it went by. Buildings gave way to trees. Familiar corners disappeared without ceremony.

He didn’t reach for his phone. Didn’t take pictures. This part didn’t need proof.

At the station, travelers moved with purpose. Suitcases rolled across concrete. Boots stamped warmth back into numb feet. A family huddled together, murmured conversation in Swedish. Nearby, two people spoke Finnish — the cadence different, sharper somehow, but close enough to make his ears perk up.

He adjusted his grip on his bag and waited.

Leaving always surprised him.

It wasn’t sadness. Not really. And it wasn’t relief either. It was something quieter — a pause, like standing in a doorway before stepping into the next room.

Sweden hadn’t been loud about what it gave him.

It had given him space.
Ease.
The reminder that solitude didn’t have to mean loneliness.

The train arrived with a low, steady rumble. Doors opened. Warm air rushed out.

Tim stepped aboard, found his seat by the window, and settled in as the world began to move again.

⸻

The countryside stretched out almost immediately — snow-covered fields, pale and endless, broken by dark lines of forest. The sky held that soft gray-blue that felt calm instead of heavy, like it knew winter didn’t need to prove anything.

Tim rested his head back for a moment.

Not to sleep. Just to mark it.

Sweden, he thought. Thank you.

When he opened his eyes, the landscape had already shifted, pulling him forward.

A few stops in, the seat across from him filled.

A woman about his age set her bag down carefully, glancing at him with a polite smile. She wore a thick knit hat and a long coat dusted with snow, cheeks pink from the cold.

“Is this seat free?” she asked, English careful but fluent.

“Yeah,” Tim said. “Go ahead.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes, the kind that felt easy. Not forced. The train hummed beneath them.

Eventually, she nodded toward the window. “First time seeing this much snow?”

He smiled. “Is it that obvious?”

She laughed softly. “A little. You’re watching it like it might disappear.”

“California,” Tim said. “We don’t get this.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Ah. That explains it.”

“Where are you headed?” she asked.

“Helsinki. Then… wherever comes next,” he added.

She considered that. “Long trip?”

“A year,” Tim said.

That earned him a longer look. Not judgmental — curious.

“Traveling for a year?” she repeated. “That’s brave.”

“Or reckless,” he said. “Depends who you ask.”

She smiled. “Where are you from?”

“California,” he said again. “Los Angeles.”

“Big change,” she said, glancing back at the snow. “I’m from Oulu. Going home after visiting my sister.”

He nodded. “What’s it like, living somewhere like this year-round?”

She shrugged thoughtfully. “Quiet. Honest. You learn to be comfortable with yourself. Or you don’t — and then it’s very long winters.”

“That sounds… accurate,” Tim said.

They talked easily after that. About travel. About how places shaped people. About how cold weather forced community — shared spaces, shared warmth. She told him about growing up with frozen lakes and dark mornings. He told her about sun that never really left, even when you wanted it to.

“And after the year?” she asked eventually.

Tim paused.

“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”

She nodded, like she understood that answer exactly.

“Well,” she said, gathering her things as the train slowed, “Finland will be good for that. It doesn’t rush you.”

He smiled. “I’m starting to notice that.”

She wished him safe travels and stepped off the train, disappearing into the moving crowd.

Tim watched the doors close.

⸻

The rest of the ride passed quietly.

Fields gave way to denser forests. The light shifted, subtle but noticeable. Tim jotted a few lines in his notebook — nothing profound. Just impressions. Temperatures. Names of places that felt good in his mouth.

He felt… steady.

Not anchored. Not stuck.

Just present.

When the train carried him onward, toward Finland, toward colder air and unfamiliar streets, Tim didn’t feel like he was leaving anything behind.

He felt like he was continuing.

And for now —

That was enough.

Chapter Text

The train slowed gradually, not with a jolt but with a gentle easing, as if Finland didn’t believe in abrupt transitions.

Tim opened his eyes as the announcement sounded overhead — unfamiliar consonants, smooth and steady — followed by English. The name of the city landed clearly enough, ,even if the language around it still felt foreign. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and looked out the window as the platform came into view.

Rovaniemi,Finland.

The station was clean, understated, and quietly busy. People moved with intention, not hurried but not lingering either. Heavy coats, wool scarves, boots built for snow and ice. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Even the colors felt muted — grays, deep blues, forest greens — practical and grounded.

Tim stood, adjusting his bag over his shoulder, and joined the flow as the doors opened.

Cold hit him immediately, sharper than Sweden’s but cleaner somehow. It cut through layers and settled on skin with purpose. He inhaled deeply, breath fogging in front of him, and felt that familiar flicker of alertness spark behind his eyes.

This was different.

The air smelled like snow and metal and pine — crisp, almost sterile, but not unfriendly. The sky overhead was pale and expansive, clouds stretched thin like brushed paint across the horizon.

He paused just outside the station doors, letting people pass around him, grounding himself before moving again.

Arrivals always mattered to him.

Not because they were dramatic — they rarely were — but because they set the tone. The way a place greeted you often said more than any guidebook ever could.

Finland didn’t greet loudly.

It simply existed, solid and unbothered, inviting him to meet it where it was.

Inside the station, warmth crept back into his fingers as he scanned the signs. Everything was clearly marked, bilingual where it mattered. He appreciated that — the quiet efficiency of it. No chaos. No confusion. Just movement with purpose.

He stopped at a small café tucked near the exit and ordered coffee, listening carefully as the barista spoke English with a soft accent. She slid the cup toward him with a polite nod, no forced cheer, no small talk beyond what was necessary.

Tim liked that.

He found a seat near the window and let himself settle for a moment. Travelers passed by with skis, backpacks, briefcases. A woman laughed softly into her phone. A child tugged at a parent’s sleeve, pointing excitedly toward the snow outside.

He sipped the coffee — strong, dark, no frills — and pulled out his notebook.

Not to write anything profound.

Just to mark the moment.

Finland. Day one.

He jotted the date, the city name, a few sensory notes: colder air, quieter rhythm, feels steady. Then he closed the notebook again, unwilling to pin the place down too quickly.

Some places needed time before they revealed themselves.

The ride into the city was smooth, efficient. Buildings passed in orderly rows, modern and understated, broken occasionally by stretches of forest that seemed to press right up against the streets. Snow clung to rooftops and tree branches alike, softening edges without hiding structure.

Tim watched it all with quiet curiosity.

This wasn’t a place that begged to be explored loudly. It felt like a place you earned slowly — by walking, by observing, by not rushing through it.

When he reached his hotel, the check-in was simple. A polite greeting. A key card. Clear directions. No unnecessary chatter.

His room overlooked a narrow street lined with trees, their branches heavy with snow. He set his bag down, shrugged out of his coat, and stood by the window for a long moment, just watching.

A man walked his dog past the hotel. A cyclist pedaled carefully along the cleared path. Somewhere nearby, a door opened and closed, voices murmuring briefly before fading.

It felt… grounded.

Not lonely. Not overwhelming.

Just calm.

Tim stretched, rolled his shoulders, and checked the time. Still early enough in the day to wander. To orient himself. To let the city breathe around him.

Outside again, he pulled his scarf higher and started walking without a strict destination in mind.

The streets were wide, clean, thoughtfully designed. Everything felt intentional — from the placement of benches to the way paths curved around green spaces buried beneath snow. Even the silence felt curated, not empty.

He passed small shops with warm lights glowing through frosted windows. A bookstore. A bakery sending out the faint, tempting smell of bread. A market stall selling wool hats and gloves, the vendor stamping his feet to stay warm.

Tim stopped at a pedestrian crossing and waited, noticing that everyone else did too — no one jaywalked, even when the street was empty. When the light changed, they moved together, quietly, in sync.

There was something reassuring about that.

He wandered into a small square, where a few locals stood chatting near a coffee stand, steam curling up into the cold air. Tim ordered another coffee — smaller this time — and leaned against a railing, listening without trying to understand every word.

The language flowed differently than Swedish. Softer in some places. Sharper in others. It felt ancient, rooted, shaped by land and weather.

A man nearby glanced at him and offered a polite nod. Tim returned it.

No pressure. No interrogation. Just acknowledgment.

As the afternoon wore on, Tim found himself walking along a waterfront path, ice stretching out across the water in uneven patterns. The sky shifted again, light fading into deeper blues and purples, the day closing gently rather than abruptly.

He stopped, resting his hands on the cold railing, and stared out across the frozen expanse.

Finland felt like a place that understood stillness.

Not as something to fear — but something to respect.

He thought briefly of home. Of routine. Of noise and movement and expectations. Then he let the thought pass, unanchored and unweighted.

This trip wasn’t about escape.

It was about presence.

And standing there, breath steady, cold seeping through gloves and into his palms, he felt exactly where he was supposed to be.

By the time he made his way back toward the hotel, the city had shifted again. Lights glowed warmer against the dark. Windows reflected passing figures. The quiet deepened, but it didn’t close in.

Inside the lobby, the heater hummed softly. A few guests sat reading or scrolling through phones. Someone laughed quietly near the elevator.

Tim paused just inside the doors, brushing snow from his coat, and took one last look outside before turning inward.

Tomorrow would bring exploration. Maybe a sauna. Maybe wandering deeper into neighborhoods. Maybe nothing planned at all.

For now, this was enough.

He headed upstairs, feeling tired in the best way — the kind that came not from exhaustion, but from absorbing something new.

Finland had welcomed him without ceremony.

And somehow, that made the arrival feel more meaningful than any grand gesture ever could.

Tomorrow, he’d begin to learn it.

Tonight, he let himself simply arrive.

Chapter Text

⸻

Tim woke before his alarm.

Not abruptly — no sharp inhale, no jolt of alertness — just the slow awareness of light pressing gently against his eyelids. Finland’s winter morning filtered through the hotel curtains in muted shades of blue and gray, the kind of light that suggested snow without demanding it. He lay there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, listening.

The hotel was quiet in that particular way that meant people were awake but not moving much yet. A distant door closed softly. Somewhere down the hall, footsteps passed, unhurried. The radiator clicked once, then settled.

Tomorrow would be snowmobiling. Fast. Loud. Cold in a way that demanded focus and adrenaline.

Today, though, felt like it wanted something else.

Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, joints loosening slowly. He pulled on a sweater and padded to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to peer out. Snow had fallen overnight — not heavy, but deliberate. The street below was freshly dusted, footprints already marking paths toward cafés and tram stops.

He watched, smiling faintly.

Before speed.
Before engines and helmets and routes.

He wanted something warm. Something slower. Something that required his hands.

⸻

He started his morning with a quick stop at the post office, just a few blocks from the hotel. The small building sat on a narrow corner street, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped in. The interior smelled faintly of paper and glue, counters worn smooth from years of use.

Tim pulled a few postcards from his bag — snowy landscapes from Sweden — and a small stack of printed photos he’d taken over the trip. Not everything. Just enough to share some moments.

He carefully filled out the addresses, added stamps, and slid everything into the outgoing slot. He lingered for a moment, watching the papers drop away. Not an anchor. Just a thread back home.

Stepping back outside, he felt lighter. The morning air was crisp, but not biting. A perfect start.

⸻

From there, he continued on to the cooking class. The community kitchen was just a short walk from the post office, near the market district. Tim had found the listing the night before while scrolling idly, drawn in by the simplicity:

Traditional Finnish home cooking. Small group. No experience required.

That sounded just right.

The air outside was brisk but manageable. Shop windows began to glow with morning light — bakeries pulling loaves from ovens, cafés stacking clean cups, florists arranging winter greens and dried flowers.

Inside the kitchen, warmth wrapped around him. Windows fogged with condensation, laughter bounced gently off tiled walls, and long wooden tables were set with cutting boards, bowls, and neatly arranged ingredients.

Tim checked in and was handed an apron.

“You’re early,” the instructor said kindly, a woman with silver hair braided down her back. “Good. You can help slice onions.”

“Happy to,” he said.

Others filtered in gradually — a mix of locals and travelers. A couple from Germany. A Finnish woman in her twenties who came mostly for conversation. An older man admitted he mostly burned water at home but wanted to try.

Introductions were easy, unforced.

They were making lohikeitto — traditional Finnish salmon soup. Simple ingredients. Careful preparation. No rush.

Tim stood at the counter, knife steady in his hand, listening as the instructor explained why each step mattered. Why the potatoes were cut thick. Why the cream went in last. Why you tasted before seasoning, always.

“Food here is about balance,” she said. “Not hiding flavors. Letting them be what they are.”

Tim nodded. That made sense.

He worked beside a local woman named Aino, who asked where he was from while they chopped leeks.

“Los Angeles,” he said.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “That is… very different.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, smiling. “That’s part of why I’m here.”

They talked quietly while they worked — about winter routines, how darkness changed daily rhythms, how Finns learned to appreciate stillness instead of fighting it. Tim listened more than he spoke, content to absorb.

As the soup simmered, the kitchen filled with the scent of salmon, dill, and cream — warm and grounding. Steam curled toward the ceiling. Windows fogged further. When they finally sat down to eat, bowls cradled in their hands, the room felt calm in a shared, unspoken way.

Tim took his first bite and paused.

Simple. Clean. Deeply satisfying.

“Yeah,” he said with a small laugh. “This was a really good idea.”

Aino smiled. “Food usually is.”

⸻

By the time Tim returned to the hotel, afternoon had softened into early evening. The city had settled. He carried leftovers carefully wrapped — the instructor had insisted — and felt quietly accomplished. He hadn’t rushed through the day. He had lived in it.

Back in his room, he set the food aside, showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and sat at the small desk by the window, phone resting nearby.

For a moment, he considered the group chat, then shook his head. Not tonight.

He opened Lucy’s thread.

Tim: Hey. You got a minute?

Lucy: Yeah. I’m here. How are you?

Tim: I’m good. Just missing home a bit. Wanted to chat.

Lucy: Perfect. Tell me about your day.

Tim: Took a cooking class. Learned to make Finnish salmon soup. No disasters.

Lucy: Look at you. Actual skills.

Tim: Surprisingly simple. Warm. Felt… grounding.

Lucy: Sounds like you needed that.

Tim: I think I did.

Tim: I’m sending you a postcard and a few photos of some of the things I’ve done. You can show them to everyone.

Lucy: Aw, thanks. That’ll be fun.

Tim: How’s everything there?

Lucy: Same controlled chaos. Nolan’s on nights, Angela’s loudly unhappy, Nyla claims she’s fine, and Wade keeps pretending none of us are unraveling.

Tim chuckled.

Tim: So nothing’s changed.

Lucy: Barely. But yes. Bills are paid, house is fine, your mail was grabbed, and plants survived.

Tim: Thank you. All of you.

Lucy: That’s what friends are for.

Tim: I’m steady. Not drifting. Not running. Just… good.

Lucy: I like that.

Tim: Finland’s been good. Quiet in the right ways. Tomorrow’s snowmobiling, so today was the calm before the noise.

Lucy: I’m proud of you for taking it.

Tim: Me too.

They let the conversation taper naturally.

Tim: I’ll check in with everyone another day.

Lucy: Sounds good. Stay warm.

He set the phone down gently. Outside, snow continued to fall.

Tomorrow would be fast. Cold. Loud.

Tonight was warm. Intentional. Enough.

Tim leaned back, letting the calm carry him forward — not away from home, but steadily through the journey he’d chosen.