Once upon a time…

The train slid into Midgaard at dusk, a place I left at twenty with a duffel bag and a head full of resolve. The platform smelled the same—wet wood and diesel—though the station had new glass panels and a coffee bar where Mr. Håkon’s kiosk once stood. I came back because Mom’s house sold, and the realtor needed me to sign papers and clear the shed.

I work long shifts laying tile, the kind of work that leaves your hands talking when your mouth is quiet. The shed door stuck like it used to, and inside I found my old tackle box, a cracked orange soccer cone, and the radio Dad fixed during a winter when money was thin. The radio still picked up AM, a weather report threading through the dust.

I walked to the pier, where we’d fish on Saturdays. The pylons were grayer, but the water kept its stubborn blue. I stayed there until the cold reached my knees. On the way back, I passed myself at twelve, but he didn’t see me. He was running hard, and he kept going.