Chapter Three

The Weight of the Unknown

Only three hours into our eight-hour flight and I’m already completely over it. I shift in my seat for what has to be the hundredth time, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my entire body scream. My body aches, my patience is gone, and the idea of being sealed in this metal tube for five more hours feels like a new form of torture.  I never thought I’d long for a layover, but here we are. 

Still, as much as I’m mentally pacing the aisles, I can’t deny a flicker of anticipation beneath the exhaustion. We’re headed to Norway, my new home, our new home. 

Gran had lived in Balestrand since she was a little girl, she only came to the states to raise me after… well, after everything. I know part of her has always missed her home. Missed the mountains, the fjords. She said the stillness there always settled something deep inside her soul. If I close my eyes, I can almost picture it. Cobblestone streets, tucked between forest and water. Little cafes with warm bread and stronger coffee. Strangers who smile like they know your whole family story. It's like one of gran’s old tales coming to life.

She leans toward me mid-flight, pulling her blanket up to her chin. “After the flight, there'll be a car waiting for us so we can go straight home. We’ll stop on the way for snacks and other things.”

I frown, “Why not just go straight to Balestrand from the airport?”

She chuckles softly, “Sweetie. It's over a six-hour drive.”

Oh, right.

Of course it is.

I try to suppress the scream bubbling in my throat and sink into the thin airplane pillow, “Great. Love that for us.”

“I’d try and sleep if I were you,” she says gently, resting her hand on mine. “Time will go quicker that way.”

She’s not wrong, I close my eyes and pretend for a moment that I’m anywhere else.

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In theory, an eight-hour flight followed by a five-hour drive sounds like a charming little international road trip. In reality, it’s a test of patience sent by the devil himself. 

We’ve been traveling for thirteen hours and every part of my body is screaming like it hates me.

Gran, of course, was completely fine—humming softly to herself, eyes glued to the road, as if she didn’t just spend the entire day in motion. She’s invincible, I am not. 

As we wind our way through the final stretch of mountain road, the landscape opens into something out of a painting. Snow-blanketed peaks stretch into the clouds, broken only by dark green pine forests and the sparkling ribbon of a distant fjord. A few reindeer graze near the treeline, completely unbothered by our presence. 

I roll down the window and breathe in the cold, clean air. It’s sharp, full of pine and ice and something ancient I can’t quite name. For the first time in days, my nerves settle. It’s beautiful here, hauntingly beautiful. 

“Not so bad, eh?” Gran says, smiling as she watches my face. 

I start to answer when something catches my eye—some kind of carving etched into the face of a massive rock formation we pass on the side of the road.

“Gran… what is that?”

She follows my gaze. “Oh, that? It’s been there for as long as I can remember, some people say the people who founded the town had it made.”

I squit, trying to make out the markings, they look old-really old. Intertwined figures, wolves and people and…. We passed it. 

Oh well. 

I shake my head, but something about those carving lingers in the back of my mind. 

We keep driving, and after another hour, gran points ahead. “Twenty more minutes, there’s a little service station up ahead—we’ll stop for gas. You can go in and grab some snacks.”

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It’s dark by the time we pull into the station, rain cascading down in sheets. The headlights cast long shadows across the gravel lot. Despite the gloomy weather, there’s something comforting about the rain. It’s always soothed me in a strange way, ever since I was small. 

As soon as we stop at the pump, I swing the door open and dash towards the entrance, trying not to wipe out in the slick mud. 

Inside, the store is warm and quiet, the soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I wander through the narrow aisles, picking up a couple of drinks and bags of candy. It’s not much, but I figure we’ve earned the late night sugar rush.

The bell above the door chimes from behind me and everything shifts. 

A chill creeping down my spine, slow and deliberate. The air thickens, my skin prickles like I've been plunged into ice water. My heartbeat kicks up, fast and erratic. And just like that, the nightmare returns but this time while I’m wide awake. 

Red eyes.

Darkness.

Chains.

Screams.

No. 

This isn’t real. I’m just tired, jetlagged, overwhelmed. 

But I can’t move, my hands are frozen, fingers clutching a bag of chocolate as my breath quickens. The aisles seem longer now, the lights flicker once, twice.

I turn. 

A woman stands a few feet behind me–tall, dark–haired, dressed in black. Her green eyes are fixed on me with something like concern, but even that doesn’t soothe the fear running rampant from within my chest.

“Frue? Har du det bra?” she asks softly.

“I..” my throat closes like a noose is tied around it, my brain scrambles for words. Nothing comes. 

“My gran,” I choke out, eyes flicking to the car park outside, “ I need my gran.”

The woman’s face shifts from concern to urgency as she bolts for the door. Through the glass, I see her waving her arms, trying to explain. Gran’s face pales as she takes one look at me through the glass. 

Seconds later, she’s inside, wrapping her arms around me. 

“Saxa,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “Come. let me take you home..”

I nod, unable to speak. The store feels like it’s shrinking around me. Every sound seems louder, every shadow deeper. I let her guide me back into the storm, numb and shaking. We don’t say a word the rest of the drive. 

But one question repeats in my head like a broken record; what is wrong with me?