Silent Hearth Part 1

Silent Hearth

Part 1: January to March

Chapter 1

On the morning that Haden Snjougla's life began to unravel—though he wouldn't recognize it as such for several more months—the temperature outside was precisely twelve degrees below zero, Georgian Bay was frozen solid enough to support a small army of ice fishermen, and his coffee had gone cold because he'd forgotten about it for the third time that week.

None of these facts were particularly unusual for a January morning in Thornbury, Ontario. The bay froze every winter. Haden's coffee went cold most mornings as he lost himself in architectural drawings. And life had a tendency to unravel when one wasn't paying attention, which Haden, despite his meticulous attention to structural detail, rarely did when it came to matters of the heart.

He sat at the kitchen table examining blueprints for a new project—a vacation home for a wealthy Toronto couple who wanted something "authentically Scandinavian but with all modern conveniences," whatever that meant—while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with his wife of nineteen years. The kitchen, like the rest of their home, was a testament to Scandinavian design principles: clean lines, natural materials, and an abundance of light. The irony that he had created such an open, transparent space while maintaining such an opaque relationship with its other occupants was not lost on him. He simply chose not to acknowledge it.

"The school called again about Hilde's project," Kaja said, placing a fresh cup of coffee beside his blueprints. "She needs family artifacts for her heritage display."

Haden nodded without looking up. "I'll check the attic this weekend."

"They need it tomorrow."

"Ah."

The conversation died there, as conversations between them often did these days. Haden took a sip of the fresh coffee and returned to his blueprints, mentally calculating load-bearing requirements while his marriage continued its slow structural failure around him.

Their home sat on a bluff overlooking Georgian Bay, the winter water stretching out like a vast, frozen plain. From certain angles, you could almost imagine it was a Norwegian fjord, though the geography was all wrong. Perhaps that's why Haden's grandfather had settled in Thornbury—some echo of the homeland in this small Ontario town, with its apple orchards and ski hills replacing the mountains and valleys of Norway.

Haden's grandfather had arrived in Canada in 1947 with nothing but a tool belt, a Norwegian-English dictionary, and an unpronounceable surname that immigration officials had simplified from Snjöuglasson to merely Snjougla—still impossible for most Canadians to pronounce correctly, but at least shorter. He had made his way to Thornbury because another Norwegian had settled there and written home about the opportunities for carpenters in the growing community. Within a decade, he had established himself as the finest builder in the region, known for structures that withstood the harshest Canadian winters with the same stoic resilience as their creator.

Haden had inherited his grandfather's talent for building, his father's head for business, and unfortunately, the Snjougla tendency toward emotional reticence that had caused problems for the men in his family for generations. His grandfather had built beautiful homes while barely speaking to his wife. His father had designed award-winning commercial buildings while failing to notice his son's desperate need for approval. And now Haden ran the most successful architectural firm in the region while his own home life silently crumbled.

His phone buzzed. A text from his business partner about a potential new client—a wealthy Toronto family wanting a vacation home that would "honor the natural landscape while providing modern luxury." He could design such a house in his sleep. In fact, he often did, his dreams filled with cantilevers and clerestory windows rather than the emotional architecture required to repair what was crumbling at home.

"I'll be late tonight," he said, standing and gathering his materials. "Client meeting in Collingwood."

Kaja nodded, her hands busy with her weaving, threads of indigo and silver catching the morning light. She didn't ask for details. He didn't offer any.

As he left, he passed his younger daughter Hilde's room, where the ten-year-old sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by books about Norse mythology. She looked up at him with eyes too knowing for her age.

"Dad, did you know that Odin sacrificed his eye to gain wisdom?"

"Is that so?" Haden paused in the doorway.

"Yes. He gave it up to drink from Mimir's well of knowledge." Hilde studied him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. "What would you sacrifice for wisdom?"

The question hung in the air between them, unexpected and uncomfortable. Haden checked his watch.

"Something to think about on the drive," he said with a forced smile. "Have a good day at school."

"Mom's making me take artifacts for the heritage project," Hilde continued, undeterred by his obvious attempt to escape. "Do we have anything from Great-Grandfather? Something actually Norwegian?"

Haden sighed. "There might be some things in the attic. I'll look tonight if I'm not too late."

"You're always late on Tuesdays," Hilde observed without accusation, simply stating a fact.

"Am I?"

"Yes. And Thursdays. And most Fridays."

Haden shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't realized his absences followed such a predictable pattern, or that his youngest daughter had been keeping track.

"Well, I'll try to be home earlier tonight," he said, though they both knew it was unlikely.

As he backed his Volvo down the driveway, he caught sight of Kaja watching from the kitchen window, her expression unreadable through the glass. For a moment, he considered returning inside, telling her about his concerns over the business, asking about her latest art commission, or simply acknowledging the growing distance between them. Instead, he put the car in drive and headed toward town, leaving the silence of his home behind for the familiar comfort of concrete problems with concrete solutions.

Thornbury in winter was a postcard-perfect small town—snow-covered streets lined with century-old buildings, the harbor frozen solid, the surrounding apple orchards dormant under blankets of white. Haden drove through the main street, nodding to familiar faces through his car window. Everyone knew everyone in Thornbury, or at least pretended to. They knew he was Haden Snjougla, the architect whose grandfather had built half the original homes in town. They knew he had a beautiful wife who created textile art that sold in galleries as far away as Toronto and Montreal. They knew he had two daughters—one a talented musician, the other unusually thoughtful and wise for her age.

What they didn't know was that he sometimes slept in his office because the silence of his beautiful home had become unbearable. They didn't know that he and Kaja hadn't truly touched each other in months. They didn't know that he woke most nights at 3 AM with a sense of panic he couldn't name, staring into the darkness and wondering how the structure of his life had developed such fundamental flaws without his noticing.

His office occupied the second floor of a century-old building on Thornbury's main street. He had renovated it himself five years earlier, preserving the original brick walls and wooden beams while creating a modern workspace that showcased his design philosophy. His business partner, Lars Jensen, was already there when Haden arrived, coffee in hand and a concerned expression on his bearded face.

"You look terrible," Lars said by way of greeting.

"Good morning to you too," Haden replied, hanging his coat on the antique rack by the door.

"Seriously, when was the last time you slept in a proper bed?"

Haden ignored the question, moving to the drafting table where the plans for their current major project were spread out. "Did you talk to the structural engineer about the cantilever issue?"

Lars sighed, recognizing the deflection but allowing it. "Yes. He says it's possible but will increase costs by about fifteen percent."

"The clients won't like that."

"The clients never like anything that costs more money. But they'll like a collapsed lakeside deck even less."

They spent the morning discussing technical solutions, budget constraints, and timeline adjustments—the comfortable territory of professional problems. At lunch, Lars brought sandwiches from the café downstairs, and they ate at their desks while reviewing emails.

"So," Lars said casually, too casually, "Ingrid mentioned she saw Kaja at the art supply store in Collingwood yesterday. Said she's preparing for a big new project."

Haden looked up, surprised. "Is she?"

Lars raised an eyebrow. "You didn't know?"

"We've both been busy."

"Too busy to talk about major projects? Ingrid and I discuss what color socks I'm wearing each morning."

"Yes, well, you and Ingrid have been married for five minutes. The detailed sock discussions fade after the first decade."

Lars laughed. "We've been married for seven years, and I hope we never stop talking about the small stuff. It's the foundation for the big stuff."

Haden returned his attention to his computer screen, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. Lars and Ingrid's relationship was indeed enviable—supportive, communicative, seemingly effortless. Everything his own marriage had been in the beginning but had somehow failed to remain.

The afternoon passed in a blur of client calls, design adjustments, and budget discussions. By the time Haden looked up from his work, darkness had fallen outside the office windows, and Lars was putting on his coat to leave.

"Don't stay too late," his partner advised. "Whatever problems exist today will still be there tomorrow."

Haden nodded absently, already turning back to the drawings on his desk. "I just need to finish this section."

"You always need to finish 'just one more section,'" Lars observed. "Meanwhile, life happens without you."

After Lars left, Haden continued working, losing himself in the clean lines and precise measurements of architectural design. Here, in the world of structure and form, everything made sense. Every problem had a solution. Every element had a purpose. Unlike the messy, unpredictable realm of human emotions, where he had never felt fluent or comfortable.

It was past nine when he finally packed up his materials. He should go home. He knew this. But the thought of returning to the silent house, to Kaja's questioning eyes and his daughters' increasingly pointed observations, kept him rooted to his chair. Instead, he pulled out a new sketch pad and began drawing—not client work now, but something personal. A renovation concept for their home, focusing on the studio space where Kaja worked. It had been an afterthought in the original design, a converted boathouse separated from the main structure. What if he connected it to the house with a glass walkway? Created a space that was both apart and connected, that honored her need for creative solitude while maintaining a visible link to family life?

He worked on the concept until midnight, losing himself in the possibilities. When he finally looked up, the office was cold and dark except for his drafting lamp. His phone showed three missed calls from home and a text from Kaja:

Are you coming home tonight?

Such a simple question. Such a complicated answer. He typed:

Working late. Don't wait up.

Then he settled onto the office couch, pulling the throw blanket over himself. The couch was uncomfortable, but at least it didn't require him to explain why he couldn't seem to find his way home these days, even with an architect's sense of direction.

 

Chapter 2

Kaja Snjougla's textile studio occupied what had once been the property's boathouse, a stone's throw from the main house but a world away in atmosphere. Here, surrounded by looms, spools of thread, and the gentle hum of her own creativity, she could breathe. The January sunlight filtered through large windows, casting geometric patterns across her current project—a commissioned wall hanging for a new restaurant in Collingwood that wanted to showcase local artists.

Her Finnish-Canadian heritage influenced every pattern she created, though lately her work had taken on darker tones that art critics called "breakthrough emotional depth" but which were, in fact, just the color of her marriage. Today she worked with indigo and silver, colors of winter water and ice, creating a pattern that spoke of isolation and beauty existing simultaneously.

The studio door opened, bringing a blast of cold air and her assistant Maren, a recent art school graduate who worked with Kaja three days a week.

"Sorry I'm late," Maren said, unwinding a scarf from around her neck. "The plow hasn't been down our road yet."

"No problem," Kaja replied, not looking up from her work. "Coffee's fresh if you want some."

Maren poured herself a cup and settled at the worktable where she would spend the morning cataloging thread samples and preparing materials for Kaja's next projects. At twenty-five, she viewed Kaja's established career with an admiration that sometimes made Kaja want to laugh. Or cry. The gap between professional success and personal fulfillment wasn't something she had understood at Maren's age either.

"The gallery in Toronto called while you were out yesterday," Maren said, organizing color swatches. "They want to feature your work in their spring exhibition. Six new pieces, they said."

Kaja's hands paused momentarily on the loom. "When?"

"April. They need to know by next week if you're interested."

April. Four months away. Enough time to create six new pieces if she started now and worked steadily. But what would they be? The restaurant commission would be finished by the end of January. After that, she had a small project for a local bed and breakfast, and then... what? More commercial work that paid the bills but left her artistically unfulfilled? Or something new, something that expressed the growing restlessness she felt?

"I'll think about it," she said finally, returning to her weaving.

"Think about it?" Maren looked up, surprised. "It's the Harbourfront Gallery. Anyone would kill for that opportunity."

"I know. It's just... timing."

"Is it because of Haden's big project? The one with the Toronto clients?"

Kaja glanced at her assistant, wondering how Maren knew about Haden's work when she herself had only the vaguest idea of his current projects. "No, it's not that."

"Then what? This could be huge for you, Kaja. A solo exhibition at Harbourfront could lead to international attention."

International attention. Once, that had been the dream—to see her work recognized beyond the regional arts scene, to have her textiles displayed in major galleries alongside other contemporary fiber artists. Somewhere along the way, that ambition had been set aside, not abandoned exactly, but placed on a high shelf while she focused on building a stable career and raising a family.

"Your work is being featured in Toronto next month," Maren continued, referring to a group show Kaja had almost forgotten about. "The curator specifically mentioned your piece 'Winter Thaw' as one of the highlights."

"Did he?" Kaja smiled faintly. "That's nice to hear."

"Nice? It's amazing! You're getting recognized, Kaja. Your work is speaking to people."

If only it spoke as clearly to her husband, Kaja thought but didn't say. Instead, she nodded and returned to her weaving, losing herself in the rhythm of the shuttle moving back and forth, the gradual emergence of pattern from individual threads.

Her hands knew what to do even when her mind wandered. They had been doing this work since she was a child, learning first from her Finnish grandmother who had brought a traditional loom with her when she immigrated to Canada in the 1950s. The old woman had taught Kaja not just techniques but a way of seeing the world—as patterns to be understood, as connections to be made, as beauty to be created from separate strands brought together with purpose and vision.

"You have the eye," her grandmother had told her. "You see how things connect when others see only separate threads."

That gift had served her well professionally. Her textiles were known for their complex patterns that revealed different aspects depending on the viewer's perspective—up close, individual threads and knots; from a distance, a cohesive image that often surprised with its emotional impact. Critics praised her "intuitive understanding of how separate elements create meaningful wholes."

If only that understanding extended to her personal life, which increasingly felt like a weaving where the pattern had been lost, where threads that once connected now ran parallel without intersection.

At noon, Maren left for lunch, promising to bring back sandwiches from the bakery in town. Alone in the studio, Kaja stepped back from her loom and stretched, easing the tension in her shoulders and neck. Through the windows, she could see Georgian Bay stretched out before her, frozen and vast. In summer, the water was alive with boats and activity. In winter, it became another world—beautiful, dangerous, isolating.

Much like her marriage, she thought, then immediately chided herself for the melodrama. Things weren't that bad. She and Haden still shared a home, still parented their daughters together, still maintained the outward appearance of a successful partnership. They didn't fight or threaten or wound each other with sharp words. They simply... existed, in parallel, like threads that never quite connected to form a pattern.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Hilde:

Dad forgot about the heritage project. Can you help me find something in the attic?

Kaja sighed. Of course he had forgotten, despite their conversation that morning. She texted back:

I'll be up to the house in 10 minutes. We'll look together.

The attic of their home was accessed through a pull-down ladder in the upstairs hallway. Kaja hadn't been up there in years—Haden used it for storage, and she had her own storage space in the studio for her professional materials. As she climbed the ladder, Hilde following close behind, she wondered what they might find among the dusty boxes and forgotten furniture.

"What exactly are we looking for?" she asked her daughter.

"Something Norwegian," Hilde replied. "Something that shows our heritage. Everyone else is bringing boring stuff like flags and maps. I want something real."

The attic was cold and dimly lit by a single window at the far end. Boxes were stacked in neat rows—Haden's organizational tendencies extending even to this rarely visited space. Each was labeled in his precise architectural handwriting: "Christmas Decorations," "Camping Equipment," "Tax Records 2010-2015."

"Try those," Kaja suggested, pointing to a stack labeled "Family Items - H. Snjougla Sr." These would be things from Haden's grandfather, the original Norwegian immigrant.

Together, they opened the first box, revealing a collection of old photographs, letters in Norwegian, and small carved wooden items—a butter knife with a handle shaped like a dragon, a box with intricate knotwork patterns, a set of small troll figures with wild hair and exaggerated features.

"These are perfect!" Hilde exclaimed, carefully examining each item. "Look, Mom, real Norwegian trolls, not tourist ones!"

"Your great-grandfather carved those," Kaja said, remembering stories Haden's father had told when they were first married. "He made them for your father when he was a little boy."

"Dad played with trolls?" Hilde looked skeptical.

"Hard to imagine, isn't it?" Kaja smiled. "But yes, he did. His grandfather told him stories about the trolls who lived in the mountains of Norway, how they turned to stone in sunlight, how they could be tricked by clever humans."

"Did Dad believe in trolls?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask him."

Hilde continued exploring the box while Kaja opened another, this one containing textiles—a traditional Norwegian sweater with intricate patterns, a table runner embroidered with geometric designs, and at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, a wedding crown.

"What's this?" Hilde asked as Kaja carefully lifted it out.

"A bridal crown," Kaja explained, turning the delicate silver piece in her hands. "In Norway, brides traditionally wore these instead of veils. This must have belonged to your great-grandmother."

The crown was beautiful—silver filigree work with small hanging ornaments that would have swayed with the bride's movements, catching the light. Kaja had seen pictures of such crowns in books but never held one. It felt both delicate and substantial in her hands, a tangible connection to women who had come before.

"Can I take it to school?" Hilde asked.

"I don't think so, sweetheart. It's too valuable and fragile. But we can take pictures of it, and you can take some of the other items—the trolls, maybe, and some of these photographs."

As they continued exploring the boxes, Kaja found herself increasingly moved by these artifacts of a family history she had married into but never fully connected with. Haden rarely spoke of his Norwegian heritage, though his grandfather had been an important figure in his childhood. These boxes contained stories untold, connections unmade.

At the bottom of the third box, they found a bundle of letters tied with faded blue ribbon.

"What are these?" Hilde asked.

Kaja examined the envelopes, addressed in flowing handwriting. "They're letters between your great-grandparents. Look at the dates—1946, 1947. This must be from when he first came to Canada, before he brought his wife and children over."

"Can we read them?"

"They're probably in Norwegian. We'd need someone to translate them."

"Mr. Olsen could do it!" Hilde said excitedly, referring to their elderly Norwegian neighbor. "He teaches me Norwegian words sometimes."

"That's a good idea," Kaja agreed. "Why don't you ask him if he'd be willing to help with your project? These letters would make a wonderful addition to your display if he could translate some passages."

They selected items for the heritage project—the carved trolls, some photographs of Norway and of Haden's grandfather building the first Snjougla home in Thornbury, a traditional Norwegian recipe handwritten on yellowed paper, and the bundle of letters for Mr. Olsen to examine. As they were preparing to descend from the attic, Hilde paused, looking thoughtfully at her mother.

"Mom, why don't you and Dad talk anymore?"

The question, coming so directly and unexpectedly, caught Kaja off guard. "What do you mean? We talk."

"Not really. Not like other parents. You say things like 'pass the salt' and 'Hilde needs a ride to soccer practice,' but you don't actually talk."

Out of the mouths of babes, Kaja thought. How to explain to a ten-year-old the slow erosion of communication that happens when two people stop making the effort, when hurts go unaddressed, when parallel lives become the path of least resistance?

"Adult relationships are complicated, sweetheart," she said finally. "Sometimes people go through periods where they're focused on different things."

"Like Dad with his buildings and you with your weaving?"

"Something like that."

"But you still love each other, right?"

Did they? Kaja wasn't sure anymore what remained beneath the layers of silence and routine. There had been love once—passionate, consuming, the kind that made her feel that together they could create something extraordinary. Now there was... habit. Shared history. Responsibility. But love? She wasn't sure she remembered what that felt like anymore.

"Of course," she said, because what else could she say to her child? "Now, let's get these things downstairs and organized for your project."

As they descended from the attic, Kaja found herself thinking about the bridal crown, about the woman who had worn it on her wedding day, full of hope and dreams for the life ahead. Had she imagined then how her marriage would unfold? Had she known the challenges she would face in a new country, with a husband who built beautiful structures but perhaps not the emotional foundations a family needed?

And what about Kaja herself? On her wedding day, wearing a modern dress but carrying her grandmother's Finnish textile as a shawl, had she imagined this future—professional success alongside personal disconnection, a beautiful home that felt increasingly empty of meaning?

The studio door opened, bringing a blast of cold air and her assistant Maren returning with lunch. "You won't believe who I ran into at the bakery," she said, unwinding her scarf. "Erik Larsson! He's back in town, teaching at the community college. He asked about you."

Erik. A name from the past that stirred unexpected feelings. They had been together briefly in art school, before she met Haden. He had been passionate, creative, emotionally expressive—everything Haden was not. Their relationship had burned bright and ended when their artistic paths diverged, but the memory of that connection—of being truly seen and understood by another person—had never completely faded.

"Did he?" Kaja said, keeping her voice neutral. "That's nice."

"He's giving a lecture series on Nordic literature and art. He specifically mentioned hoping you might attend one of the sessions. Said your work had always been an inspiration."

"That's kind of him."

"He left his card," Maren said, placing it on the worktable. "In case you want to catch up."

Kaja glanced at the card—simple, elegant, with Erik's name and contact information. A small bridge between past and present, between the woman she had been and the woman she had become. She slipped it into her pocket, not yet sure what, if anything, she would do with it.

The afternoon passed in focused work, the rhythm of the loom soothing in its predictability. By the time Maren left at four, Kaja had made significant progress on the restaurant commission, the pattern of indigo and silver taking clear shape. She worked for another hour, then cleaned her tools and prepared to return to the main house to start dinner.

As she locked the studio door, she paused to look out at Georgian Bay, now darkening as the winter sun set early. In the distance, she could see the lights of ice fishing huts—small, warm sanctuaries in the vast frozen landscape. People seeking connection, perhaps, or solitude, or simply the quiet beauty of a winter evening on the bay.

Inside the main house, she found Hilde at the kitchen table, carefully arranging her heritage items for the next day's presentation.

"Where's Reyna?" Kaja asked, referring to her older daughter.

"Band practice," Hilde replied without looking up from her work. "She texted that she'll be home by six."

"And dinner is..." Kaja opened the refrigerator, surveying its contents and trying to formulate a plan.

"Dad said not to wait for him," Hilde added. "He has a client meeting in Collingwood."

Of course he did. Tuesday night client meetings had become so routine that Hilde didn't even question them anymore. Kaja wondered if there really was a client, or if Haden simply couldn't face another silent family dinner. She wouldn't blame him if it were the latter; she sometimes dreaded them herself.

"How about pasta?" she suggested, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. "Simple and quick."

"With your special sauce?" Hilde looked up hopefully.

"If you'll help me make it."

Together, they prepared dinner, Hilde chattering about her heritage project and the stories Mr. Olsen might tell about the letters they'd found. Kaja listened with half her attention, the other half occupied with thoughts of the Toronto gallery exhibition, of Erik's unexpected reappearance in her life, of the bridal crown in the attic and the woman who had worn it.

When Reyna arrived home from band practice, cheeks flushed from the cold and guitar case in hand, the three of them sat down to dinner. The conversation flowed easily between mother and daughters—Reyna's music, Hilde's project, plans for the weekend. It was only when they were clearing the table that Hilde asked the question that had been hovering unspoken all evening:

"Is Dad coming home tonight?"

Kaja hesitated. "I'm not sure, sweetheart. He said he had a late meeting."

"He slept at his office last night," Reyna said, her tone carefully neutral. "I saw his car there when we drove past on the way to early band practice."

"Did you?" Kaja kept her voice light, though the confirmation of what she had suspected sent a pang through her. "Well, sometimes he works very late and it's easier to stay in town."

"Every Tuesday?" Reyna raised an eyebrow, looking suddenly much older than her fourteen years.

"Reyna," Kaja said, a warning note in her voice.

"What? I'm just asking. It's weird, that's all."

"Your father works hard to provide for this family. Sometimes that means late nights."

"Whatever," Reyna muttered, turning away to load the dishwasher.

Later, after the girls had gone to bed, Kaja sat alone in the living room, a glass of wine in hand, looking out at the night. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of timber adjusting to the cold. Outside, stars glittered in the clear winter sky, their light reflecting off the snow-covered landscape.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Haden:

Working late. Don't wait up.

The same message as the night before, and many nights before that. Not a lie, exactly, but not the full truth either. Working late had become code for "I can't face coming home," just as her replies of "OK" had become code for "I won't ask questions you don't want to answer."

Tonight, however, something shifted in Kaja. Perhaps it was finding the bridal crown in the attic, that tangible connection to a woman who had crossed an ocean for love and family. Perhaps it was Hilde's direct question about whether her parents still loved each other. Perhaps it was simply the accumulation of too many silent evenings, too many unasked questions, too many parallel lives that never quite intersected.

Instead of her usual "OK," she typed:

We found your grandfather's Norwegian artifacts in the attic today. Hilde is taking some for her heritage project. There's a beautiful bridal crown that must have belonged to your grandmother. I thought you might want to see it.

She hesitated, then added:

I miss you.

Three simple words she hadn't said in months, perhaps years. Three words that acknowledged the distance between them and expressed a desire to bridge it. Three words that made her feel suddenly vulnerable, as if she had exposed a part of herself long kept protected.

She sent the text, then set her phone aside, not expecting an immediate response. Haden rarely replied to messages in the evening, especially when he was "working late." To her surprise, however, the phone buzzed almost immediately:

I miss you too.

Four words that cracked something open inside her—not healing, not yet, but perhaps the beginning of an acknowledgment that something was broken and needed repair.

She stared at the message for a long time, unsure how to respond, unsure what it meant in the larger context of their drifting marriage. Finally, she typed:

Come home.

The reply came after a long pause:

I will. Soon.

Not tonight, then. But soon. It wasn't much, but it was something—a thread reaching across the distance between them, tentative but real. Whether it would strengthen into something that could be woven into a new pattern for their life together remained to be seen.

Kaja finished her wine and prepared for bed, moving through the quiet house with the practiced ease of someone who has spent many evenings alone. As she passed Hilde's room, she saw light under the door and knocked softly.

"Come in," her younger daughter called.

Hilde was sitting up in bed, one of the carved trolls from the attic beside her on the pillow, a book about Norse mythology open on her lap.

"It's late," Kaja said gently. "You should be asleep."

"I know. But I wanted to read about the trolls so I can explain them properly tomorrow." Hilde looked up at her mother. "Did you know that in the old stories, trolls could sometimes be helpful to humans? They weren't all bad."

"I didn't know that," Kaja said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Mr. Olsen says that's why Scandinavians are practical people. They learned from the trolls that things aren't always what they seem, and that even scary-looking creatures might help you if you approach them the right way."

Out of the mouths of babes, Kaja thought again. "That's very wise."

"Mom?" Hilde's voice took on the serious tone that often preceded her most insightful questions. "Are you and Dad going to get divorced?"

The directness of the question took Kaja's breath away. "What? No, of course not. Why would you ask that?"

Hilde shrugged. "Mika's parents got divorced last year. She said first they stopped talking, then her dad started sleeping at his office, then they told her and her brother they were separating."

The parallels to their own situation were uncomfortably close. "Sweetheart, every family is different. Your father and I are just... going through a busy period. With work and everything."

"That's what Mika's mom said too. But then they got divorced anyway."

Kaja sighed, recognizing that her daughter deserved more honesty than she had been offering. "Marriage is complicated, Hilde. Sometimes people grow in different directions, or forget how to talk to each other about important things. But that doesn't mean they don't love each other or their children."

"So you do still love Dad?"

Did she? The question Hilde had asked earlier in the attic, now repeated with the persistence of a child who knows she hasn't received a real answer. Kaja thought about the text message she had just sent, about the artifacts in the attic, about the years of shared history and created life.

"Yes," she said finally, surprising herself with the certainty she felt. "I do still love your father. But sometimes love gets... buried under other things. Like snow covering the ground in winter. It's still there underneath, but you can't always see it."

Hilde considered this metaphor. "So you have to dig it out? Or wait for it to melt?"

Kaja smiled. "Maybe a little of both. Now, it's really time for sleep. You have a big presentation tomorrow."

She tucked her daughter in, removing the book and the troll from the bed despite Hilde's protests that the troll would get lonely on the shelf. As she turned out the light, Hilde's voice came once more from the darkness:

"Mom? I think the snow is starting to melt."

Kaja paused in the doorway, touched by her daughter's optimism and insight. "I hope you're right, sweetheart. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mom. Tell the trolls goodnight too if you see them."

"I will," Kaja promised, closing the door softly behind her.

In her bedroom—their bedroom, though Haden's presence had become increasingly rare—Kaja prepared for sleep, her mind full of the day's discoveries and conversations. The bridal crown from the attic. The letters waiting to be translated. Erik's unexpected reappearance in her life. Hilde's direct questions about the state of her parents' marriage. And those text messages, small but significant:

I miss you.

I miss you too.

Come home.

I will. Soon.

As she drifted toward sleep, Kaja found herself thinking of her loom in the studio, of the pattern emerging from separate threads, of connections being made that would eventually reveal a complete design. Perhaps their marriage was like that too—a work in progress, its final pattern not yet visible but still possible, still waiting to be created from the threads of their separate and shared lives.

Outside, snow began to fall softly on Georgian Bay, covering the frozen surface with a fresh layer of white. Beneath it, the ice remained solid, waiting for spring's thaw.

 

 

Chapter 3

Reyna Snjougla practiced her folk songs in the music room, her fingers moving confidently across the strings of her guitar while her voice filled the space with tales of love and loss from another century. Music was her refuge, the one place where emotions made sense. Unlike the rest of her life, which had become an exercise in pretending not to notice things—like how her parents hadn't spoken directly to each other in three days, or how her father's car was often gone before she woke up and returned after she went to bed.

She had her father's height and her mother's talent, but unfortunately also inherited both their stubbornness, which made for interesting family dynamics when anyone bothered to engage with each other at all.

The song she was practicing for her music class was a traditional Norwegian ballad about a woman waiting for her lover to return from the sea. The irony wasn't lost on her—her mother and father lived in the same house but seemed oceans apart.

"Reyna! Dinner!" Her mother's voice carried up the stairs, interrupting the final verse.

With a sigh, Reyna set down her guitar and headed downstairs, already knowing what she would find: her mother and sister at the table, her father's place empty. Again.

"Dad's not coming?" she asked, though she knew the answer.

"Client meeting in Collingwood," her mother replied, placing a bowl of pasta on the table.

"On a Wednesday? I thought his Collingwood meetings were Tuesdays."

"This is a different client," Kaja said, her tone making it clear the subject was closed.

Reyna exchanged glances with Hilde, who shrugged slightly. At ten, her younger sister was surprisingly perceptive about family dynamics, though she processed them differently—through her growing collection of Norse mythology books and the strange little rituals she had begun performing with stones and candles.

"How was school?" Kaja asked, changing the subject as she served the pasta.

"Fine," Reyna replied automatically.

"Just fine? Nothing interesting happened?"

Reyna considered mentioning that she'd been selected to perform a solo at the spring concert, but something held her back. What was the point of sharing good news when half the family wasn't present to hear it?

"Ms. Larsson liked my arrangement of the Norwegian folk song," she offered finally. "She asked if I'd perform it at the spring concert."

"That's wonderful!" her mother exclaimed, genuine pride lighting her face. "Which arrangement? The one you were working on last weekend?"

"Yeah, that one. With the modern bridge section."

"I'd love to hear it when you're ready to share."

"Me too!" Hilde chimed in. "Can I be your first audience? Please?"

Despite her mood, Reyna smiled at her sister's enthusiasm. "Sure, squirt. After dinner if you want."

The conversation shifted to Hilde's heritage project, which had apparently been a great success. She chattered excitedly about how her classmates had been impressed by the Norwegian trolls and how her teacher had asked her to bring in the letters for a special lesson on immigration history.

"Mr. Olsen is going to help me translate them," Hilde explained. "He says they're love letters between Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother when they were separated. Isn't that romantic?"

"Very," Kaja agreed. "It must have been difficult to be apart for so long, with only letters to keep them connected."

"At least they wrote to each other," Reyna muttered before she could stop herself.

Her mother gave her a sharp look. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Reyna said, focusing on her pasta.

"If you have something to say, Reyna, say it directly."

The challenge in her mother's voice was unusual. Typically, Kaja avoided confrontation, especially around the girls. Something had shifted, Reyna realized. Something was different.

"I just meant that at least they made an effort," she said, meeting her mother's gaze. "Even though they were physically separated. Unlike some people who live in the same house but might as well be on different planets."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken thoughts. Hilde looked between her mother and sister, eyes wide.

"Your father and I are both very busy with work right now," Kaja said finally, her voice carefully controlled. "It's a temporary situation."

"Is it? Because it seems pretty permanent from where I'm sitting. Dad's never home, you're always in your studio, and Hilde and I are just... here. Watching whatever this is."

"That's not fair, Reyna. We both love you girls very much."

"I know that," Reyna said, her anger deflating slightly. "I just... I miss how things used to be. When we did things together. When Dad was actually here for dinner more than once a week."

Kaja's expression softened. "I miss that too."

The simple admission surprised Reyna. She had expected the usual deflection, the practiced reassurances that everything was fine, just busy. This honesty, however limited, felt like a crack in the facade her parents had maintained for months.

"Then why don't you do something about it?" she asked, pressing her advantage.

"It's complicated, sweetheart."

"That's what adults always say when they don't want to explain things to kids."

"You're right," Kaja acknowledged. "And you're not kids anymore, not really. You deserve more than that." She took a deep breath. "The truth is, your father and I have... drifted apart in some ways. We're trying to figure things out."

"Are you getting divorced?" Hilde asked, her voice small.

"No," Kaja said firmly. "Absolutely not. We're just going through a rough patch. All marriages do sometimes."

"Then why won't Dad come home?" Hilde persisted.

"He will. He's just... he finds it easier to focus on work right now. It's how he deals with difficult emotions."

"By avoiding them?" Reyna couldn't keep the edge from her voice.

"By giving himself space to process them," Kaja corrected gently. "We all handle feelings differently, Reyna. You express yours through music. Hilde creates rituals and studies mythology. I weave. Your father... builds things. Designs spaces. Solves concrete problems while the emotional ones percolate."

Put that way, it made a certain kind of sense, though Reyna wasn't ready to fully accept the explanation. "So what happens now? We just wait for him to... percolate?"

A small smile touched Kaja's lips. "Not exactly. I've asked him to come home. To really come home, not just to sleep here occasionally."

"What did he say?" Hilde asked eagerly.

"He said he would. Soon."

"When is soon?" Reyna pressed.

"I don't know exactly. But I think... I think things might start to change."

After dinner, true to her promise, Reyna played her arranged folk song for Hilde in the living room. Her sister sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, swaying slightly with the music. When the final notes faded, Hilde opened her eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.

"That was beautiful," she said simply.

"Thanks, squirt."

"It's sad but also hopeful. Like... like the woman knows her love might never come back from the sea, but she keeps watching and waiting anyway."

Reyna was continually surprised by her sister's emotional intelligence. "That's exactly what I was trying to convey. How did you know?"

"I just felt it in the music." Hilde hesitated, then added, "Is that how you feel about Dad? Like you're waiting for him to come back from somewhere far away?"

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. "Maybe," Reyna admitted. "But it's different. Dad's just at his office, not lost at sea."

"Mr. Olsen says people can be lost without leaving home. That sometimes the greatest distances are the ones we create in our minds."

"Mr. Olsen says a lot of things," Reyna replied, though she couldn't deny the wisdom in the old man's words.

Later that night, unable to sleep, Reyna sat at her bedroom window looking out at Georgian Bay. The January moon cast a silver path across the frozen surface, creating an otherworldly landscape of ice and shadow. In the distance, she could see the lights of Thornbury, including the soft glow from the second-floor window of her father's office.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her friend Mika:

Still coming to band practice tomorrow? We need to work on that new song.

Reyna typed back:

Yeah, I'll be there. Bringing my arrangement of "The Sea Widow" too.

The sad Norwegian one? Perfect. Jonas will love the minor key for his bass line.

If you say so. See you tomorrow.

Reyna set her phone aside and picked up her guitar again, playing softly so as not to wake her sister in the next room. The melody of "The Sea Widow" came easily to her fingers now, the story of waiting and watching resonating more deeply than she cared to admit.

Her arrangement had added a bridge section that wasn't in the traditional version—a moment where the melody shifted from minor to major, suggesting the possibility of return, of reunion, of broken things made whole again. She wasn't sure if she believed in that possibility for her own family, but the music allowed her to explore it, to give it voice and form.

As she played, she thought about what her mother had said at dinner—that they all processed emotions differently, that her father's retreat into work was his way of dealing with whatever was happening between her parents. It made sense intellectually, but emotionally, it still felt like abandonment.

A movement outside caught her eye—headlights turning into their driveway. Her father's Volvo. She glanced at the clock: 11:37 PM. Earlier than she had expected, given his recent patterns.

Setting down her guitar, Reyna moved quietly to her bedroom door, opening it just enough to hear what happened next. The front door opened and closed. Footsteps in the entryway, the rustle of a coat being hung up. Then silence.

After a moment, she heard her mother's voice from downstairs: "You're home."

"I am," her father replied, his deep voice carrying up the stairwell.

"I wasn't sure you would come tonight."

"I said I would. Soon."

"This is sooner than I expected."

A pause, then: "I found something at the office. In my desk drawer. I thought you might want to see it."

Reyna couldn't hear what happened next—their voices dropped too low for her to make out the words. Curious, she considered sneaking downstairs for a better listening position, but the risk of being caught eavesdropping was too high. Instead, she returned to her window, watching as the clouds moved across the moon, alternately revealing and concealing its light.

Whatever was happening between her parents, it felt like a shift, a change in the weather. Whether it was the beginning of a storm or the clearing of one remained to be seen.

The next morning, Reyna came downstairs to find her father at the kitchen table, reviewing blueprints while drinking coffee. The sight was so normal and yet so unexpected that she paused in the doorway, momentarily unsure how to proceed.

"Good morning," Haden said, looking up from his work. "There's fresh coffee if you want some."

"Thanks," Reyna replied, moving to the cupboard for a mug. "You're... here."

"I am."

"For how long?"

The directness of her question seemed to surprise him. "I'm not leaving for the office until nine today. I thought I might drive you to school on my way."

"I usually walk with Mika."

"Right. Of course." He looked down at his blueprints again, a slight flush coloring his cheeks.

Reyna felt a twinge of regret at her quick rejection. "But I could text her that I'm getting a ride today. If you really want to drive me."

Haden looked up again, a cautious smile forming. "I'd like that."

The drive to school was awkward at first, neither of them quite sure what to say after months of minimal interaction. Reyna stared out the window at the winter landscape, at the frozen bay visible between buildings as they drove through town.

"Your mother mentioned you're performing at the spring concert," Haden said finally. "A Norwegian folk song?"

"Yeah. 'The Sea Widow.' It's about a woman whose husband is lost at sea, but she keeps watching for his return."

"Sounds melancholy."

"It is, mostly. But I added a section that suggests hope. The possibility of return."

Haden was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the road. "I'd like to hear it sometime."

"Really?" Reyna couldn't keep the surprise from her voice.

"Yes, really. I know I haven't been... present... lately. But I'd like to change that."

"Because Mom asked you to come home?"

Another pause. "Partly. But also because I miss you. And Hilde. And your mother." He glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the road. "I miss our family."

The simple admission, so similar to what her mother had said the night before, caught Reyna off guard. She had expected deflection, excuses about work, the usual adult evasions. This honesty was new and unsettling.

"We miss you too," she said finally, her voice smaller than she intended. "Even when I'm mad at you for not being around, I still miss you."

Haden nodded, his hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. "I know I haven't been a very good father lately. Or husband. I'm trying to figure some things out."

"Like what?"

"Like how to balance work and family better. Like how to talk about difficult things instead of avoiding them. Like how to be present even when it's uncomfortable."

They were approaching the school now, other cars dropping off students, teenagers streaming toward the entrance. Reyna felt a sudden reluctance to end the conversation, rare as such moments with her father had become.

"Are you and Mom going to be okay?" she asked as Haden pulled into the drop-off lane.

He turned to look at her fully now, his expression serious but warm. "I hope so. We're working on it. It might take some time, but... yes, I think we'll be okay."

"Promise?"

"I promise we'll try our best. That's all anyone can really promise."

It wasn't the absolute reassurance she had hoped for, but it was honest. And after months of evasions and pretense, honesty felt like a gift.

"I have band practice after school," she said as she gathered her backpack and guitar case. "But I could play you the arrangement tonight. If you'll be home."

"I'll be home," Haden said firmly. "I'm looking forward to it."

As Reyna walked toward the school entrance, she felt something shift inside her—not resolution, not yet, but perhaps the beginning of hope. Like the bridge section in her arrangement of "The Sea Widow," a moment where the melody changed from minor to major, suggesting possibilities not yet realized but newly imaginable.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Mika:

Where are you? Bell rings in 5.

Just got dropped off. Dad drove me.

Your dad? The ghost of Thornbury architecture?

About time. See you in class.

The school day passed in its usual blur of classes, conversations, and teenage dramas. Reyna found it hard to focus, her mind returning repeatedly to the morning's conversation with her father, to the promise of his presence at home that evening, to the possibility that whatever had been broken in her family might be starting to mend.

During lunch, she sat with her usual group—Mika, Jonas, and Elias, who together formed the core of their fledgling band, Northern Lights. They had started playing together the previous summer, covering popular songs at first but gradually incorporating more original material and, thanks to Reyna's influence, arrangements of traditional Nordic folk music.

"So I worked out the bass line for your Norwegian widow song," Jonas said, showing her his notebook where he'd written out the music. "It's pretty cool actually. Has this haunting quality."

"Let me see," Reyna said, examining his notes. "Yeah, that works with what I'm doing on guitar. Mika, did you figure out the drum part?"

"Keeping it simple," Mika replied through a mouthful of sandwich. "Just light brushes on the verses, building during your bridge section. Nothing too heavy."

"And I've got some atmospheric stuff on keyboard," Elias added. "Like, to suggest the ocean and stuff."

"Great," Reyna nodded. "Let's try it all together at practice today."

"You seem different," Mika observed, studying her friend's face. "Less... I don't know... angsty than usual."

"Do I?"

"Yeah. What's up? Did something happen?"

Reyna hesitated, not sure how much to share. Her friends knew the broad outlines of her family situation—that her father had been increasingly absent, that her parents seemed to be struggling—but she had kept the details private, partly out of loyalty and partly because speaking them aloud made them more real.

"My dad came home last night," she said finally. "And he was there this morning. And he says he'll be there tonight too."

"Wow," Mika said. "What changed?"

"I'm not sure exactly. My mom asked him to come home, and... he did."

"Just like that? After months of whatever was going on?"

"I don't think it's 'just like that.' I think... I think they're trying to work on things. Actually talk to each other instead of avoiding everything."

"Well, that's good, right?" Jonas asked.

"Yeah," Reyna agreed. "It's good. Different, but good."

The afternoon classes dragged, her mind elsewhere. In music class, Ms. Larsson asked her to demonstrate her arrangement of "The Sea Widow" for the other students, praising her creative approach to the traditional material.

"You've maintained the essence of the original while making it your own," the teacher commented. "That's the mark of a true musician—honoring tradition while finding your own voice within it."

After school, band practice in Jonas's garage was productive, the four of them working through their set list for an upcoming performance at a local coffee shop. When they got to "The Sea Widow," something clicked—the bass, drums, keyboard, and Reyna's guitar and vocals coming together in a way that gave her chills despite the heated garage.

"That was it," Elias said when they finished. "That's the arrangement. Don't change anything."

"Agreed," Mika nodded. "It's perfect as is."

"We should record it," Jonas suggested. "My brother has that decent microphone setup. Maybe this weekend?"

"Maybe," Reyna said, checking the time on her phone. "I should get going. My dad's expecting me home."

The words felt strange in her mouth, unfamiliar after so many months of no expectations, no schedules, no certainty about her father's presence.

"Look at you, with a curfew and everything," Mika teased. "Like a normal teenager."

"Shut up," Reyna replied, but she was smiling as she packed up her guitar.

The walk home took her along Georgian Bay, the winter sunset painting the frozen surface in shades of pink and gold. The beauty of it caught her breath, making her pause on the shore path to simply look. This was why her ancestors had settled here, she thought—because something in this landscape echoed the fjords and mountains they had left behind. Because even in a new country, they had sought connection to what they knew, to what felt like home.

As she approached their house on the bluff, Reyna saw lights glowing in the windows and smoke rising from the chimney. Her father's car was in the driveway alongside her mother's. The sight was so normal, so ordinary, and yet it filled her with a complicated mix of emotions—relief, hope, and a lingering wariness born of months of disappointment.

Inside, she found her family in the kitchen. Hilde was setting the table, chattering about her day at school. Kaja was at the stove, stirring something that smelled delicious. And Haden was actually helping, chopping vegetables at the counter while listening to Hilde's stories.

"Reyna!" Hilde exclaimed when she entered. "Dad's making his special salad dressing! The one with the mustard and honey!"

"Is he?" Reyna set down her guitar case and backpack, watching the domestic scene with cautious optimism.

"How was band practice?" Kaja asked, looking up from the stove.

"Good. We worked out the full arrangement for 'The Sea Widow.' The guys think we should record it this weekend."

"That's a great idea," Haden said, turning from his chopping. "I'd love to hear the recording if you make one."

"Actually," Reyna said, gathering her courage, "I promised I'd play it for you tonight. If you still want to hear it."

"I do," Haden nodded. "Very much."

"After dinner?" Kaja suggested. "We could have a little family concert in the living room."

"With hot chocolate?" Hilde asked hopefully.

"With hot chocolate," Kaja confirmed, smiling at her younger daughter.

Dinner was... not normal, exactly, but closer to it than they had been in months. There were still awkward pauses, moments where the conversation faltered, but there were also genuine exchanges, actual listening, even occasional laughter. Reyna watched her parents carefully, noting how they made eye contact now, how they seemed to be making an effort to include each other in the conversation, how the tension that had hung between them for so long seemed somehow different—not gone, but transformed into something more productive, more hopeful.

After the meal, they gathered in the living room as promised. Haden built a fire in the fireplace while Kaja prepared hot chocolate in the kitchen. Hilde arranged herself on the floor with her favorite cushions, looking expectantly at Reyna.

"Are you going to play the sad widow song?" she asked.

"It's not just sad," Reyna corrected, tuning her guitar. "It's about hope too."

"Like us," Hilde said with the simple directness that often caught her family off guard. "We were sad but now we're hopeful again."

Reyna exchanged glances with her parents, who had both paused in their tasks at Hilde's words.

"I think that's right, sweetheart," Kaja said, bringing in a tray of steaming mugs. "We are hopeful again."

When they were all settled—Hilde on her cushions, Kaja and Haden side by side on the sofa, not touching but closer than they had sat in months—Reyna began to play. The opening notes of "The Sea Widow" filled the room, haunting and melancholy, her voice telling the story of a woman whose husband had been lost at sea, who kept a candle burning in her window night after night, watching the horizon for his return.

As she moved into her original bridge section, where the melody shifted from minor to major, suggesting the possibility of return, of reunion, she saw her father reach across the small space between them on the sofa and take her mother's hand. Kaja looked surprised for a moment, then turned her palm upward, interlacing their fingers.

The gesture was small but significant—a connection reestablished, a bridge across the distance that had separated them. Like the melody Reyna was playing, it suggested possibilities not yet realized but newly imaginable.

When the final notes faded, there was a moment of silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then Hilde began to applaud enthusiastically, followed by her parents.

"That was beautiful, Reyna," Kaja said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Truly beautiful."

"The bridge section especially," Haden added. "The way you changed the feeling there—from waiting to... to hoping. It's very powerful."

"Thanks," Reyna mumbled, always uncomfortable with direct praise despite craving it. "It's still a work in progress."

"Like all the best things," her father said, his gaze moving from Reyna to include Kaja and Hilde. "Like families."

Later that night, as Reyna prepared for bed, she heard her parents' voices from downstairs—not raised in argument but engaged in actual conversation, the specific words indistinguishable but the tone clear: they were talking, really talking, perhaps for the first time in months.

Outside her window, the winter moon cast its silver light across Georgian Bay, creating that path on the water that had inspired countless stories of journeys and returns. Reyna thought of "The Sea Widow," of the woman watching and waiting, of hope maintained against all evidence.

Perhaps, she thought as she drifted toward sleep, her guitar leaning against the wall beside her bed, perhaps some lost things could find their way home after all.

 

Chapter 4

Hilde Snjougla had the unfortunate ability to see everything clearly. While other children collected rocks or stamps, Hilde collected family secrets, storing them away like a squirrel preparing for winter. She found her mother's journal under a pile of yarn and read exactly four sentences before deciding adults were far too complicated for their own good.

On this particular January morning, as her father actually sat at the breakfast table (a rare occurrence these days) and her mother moved around the kitchen with a lightness Hilde hadn't seen in months, she observed them with the careful attention of a scientist studying an unpredictable natural phenomenon.

"You're staring, Hilde," her mother said, placing a plate of pancakes on the table.

"I'm observing," Hilde corrected. "There's a difference."

"And what are you observing?" her father asked, looking up from his coffee with an amused expression.

Hilde considered the question seriously. "That you're wearing the blue sweater Mom gave you for Christmas, which you haven't worn before today. That Mom made pancakes, which she usually only does on weekends. That you're both trying very hard to act normal, which means something has changed."

Her parents exchanged glances, a silent communication that Hilde couldn't quite interpret.

"You're very perceptive," her father said finally.

"Mr. Olsen says I have the sight. Like the völva in the old Norse stories."

"The what?" Reyna asked, entering the kitchen with her hair still wet from the shower.

"Völva," Hilde repeated. "They were wise women who could see things others couldn't. They used runes and rituals to help people understand their fate."

"Right," Reyna rolled her eyes. "And let me guess—Mr. Olsen thinks you're some kind of child seer?"

"He says I notice things," Hilde replied, unbothered by her sister's skepticism. "Important things that adults sometimes miss."

"Like what?" Reyna challenged, helping herself to pancakes.

Hilde looked directly at her parents. "Like how Dad came home last night and is still here this morning. Like how Mom is humming while she cooks. Like how they held hands during your song last night."

A flush crept up her mother's neck. "Hilde, sometimes it's polite to pretend not to notice certain things."

"Why? If they're good things, why pretend not to see them?"

"She has a point," her father said, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Why pretend not to notice good things?"

The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted, something tight releasing into something warmer. Her mother laughed—a real laugh, not the polite one she had been using for months—and her father's smile widened in response.

"Eat your pancakes, little völva," he said to Hilde. "Or you'll be late for school."

After breakfast, as Hilde gathered her things for school, she overheard her parents in the kitchen, their voices low but not tense.

"Will you be home for dinner?" her mother asked.

"Yes," her father replied. "I have a client meeting at four, but I should be done by six."

"I'll plan for six-thirty then."

"Perfect."

Such a simple exchange, so ordinary that most children would have paid it no attention. But Hilde, with her collector's instinct for significant moments, recognized it for what it was: the beginning of something. A return to patterns long abandoned. A reconnection.

At school, Hilde's day was filled with the usual activities—math and reading, recess in the snow, lunch with her friends. But her mind kept returning to the changes she had observed at home, trying to make sense of them in the context of the past several months.

Her parents had been unhappy—that much had been clear even to a ten-year-old. Her father had been absent more and more, her mother increasingly withdrawn into her weaving. The house had felt cold despite the heating system, empty despite four people living in it. And then suddenly, overnight it seemed, something had shifted. A thaw had begun.

During recess, she sat on a bench at the edge of the playground, watching the other children play in the snow. Her best friend, Astrid, plopped down beside her, her cheeks red from running.

"Why aren't you playing?" Astrid asked, brushing snow from her mittens.

"I'm thinking," Hilde replied.

"About what?"

"My parents. I think they might be falling in love again."

Astrid's eyes widened. "Were they not in love before?"

Hilde considered this. "I think they forgot for a while. But now they're remembering."

"That's good, right?"

"Yes. But also complicated. Mr. Olsen says that when ice thaws too quickly, it can crack. I think people might be the same way."

Astrid looked confused by this metaphor, but before she could respond, the bell rang, calling them back inside. As they lined up to return to class, Hilde spotted Mr. Olsen walking past the school fence, his tall figure unmistakable even at a distance. She waved, and the old man waved back, his weathered face breaking into a smile.

Mr. Olsen had been their neighbor for as long as Hilde could remember. His small stone cottage sat at the edge of their property, overlooking Georgian Bay from a different angle than their more modern home. He had emigrated from Norway as a young man in the 1950s and had known Hilde's great-grandfather, though he rarely spoke of those early days in Canada.

What he did speak of—at length and with great enthusiasm—were the old Norse stories, the traditions and beliefs of their shared heritage. Hilde had been visiting him regularly since she was seven, initially accompanied by her mother but increasingly on her own as she grew older. In his cottage filled with books and carved wooden figures, with its scent of cardamom and pine, she had found a sanctuary when her home became too tense, too silent.

After school, instead of going directly home, Hilde made her way to Mr. Olsen's cottage. She knocked on the weathered wooden door, hearing his familiar shuffling steps approach.

"Ah, little völva," he greeted her, opening the door wide. "I had a feeling you might visit today. Come in, come in. I have cookies fresh from the oven."

The cottage was warm and smelled of baking. Mr. Olsen led her to the kitchen table, where a plate of cardamom cookies cooled beside a pot of tea. At eighty-five, he moved more slowly than he once had, but his blue eyes remained sharp and alert, missing nothing.

"So," he said as they settled at the table, "what brings you to my door on this winter afternoon? More questions about trolls for your heritage project?"

"No," Hilde replied, accepting a cookie. "Questions about people."

"Ah. The most complicated subject of all." Mr. Olsen poured tea into two cups, adding a generous spoonful of honey to Hilde's. "What specifically about people interests you today?"

"How they change. How they... thaw."

The old man's eyebrows rose slightly. "An interesting choice of words. Is something thawing at your house, perhaps?"

Hilde nodded, taking a bite of cookie before explaining. "Dad came home last night. And he was still there this morning. And he and Mom are talking again—really talking, not just saying things like 'pass the salt' or 'Hilde needs new snow boots.'"

"I see," Mr. Olsen nodded thoughtfully. "And this concerns you?"

"Not exactly. It's good, I think. But also... strange. Like when spring comes suddenly after a long winter and everything changes at once."

Mr. Olsen smiled. "You have a poet's soul, little one. Yes, sudden changes can be disorienting, even when they're changes for the better."

"Mr. Olsen," Hilde said, setting down her cookie and looking at him seriously, "do you think they'll stay better? Or will it freeze again?"

The old man considered her question with the gravity it deserved. "I cannot see the future, Hilde, despite what you might believe about old Norwegian men." His eyes twinkled briefly. "But I know something about ice and thawing. When the bay begins to melt in spring, it doesn't happen all at once, and it doesn't happen permanently at first. There are warm days followed by cold ones. Parts that seem solid suddenly give way. Parts that seem melted freeze again overnight. It's a process, not a single event."

"So things might get worse again before they get better for good?"

"Possibly. Or they might continue to improve steadily. Or they might find a new pattern altogether. The point is, change—real change—is rarely simple or straightforward. It requires patience and attention."

Hilde sipped her tea, considering this wisdom. "I wish I could help somehow. Make sure the thaw continues."

"Perhaps you can," Mr. Olsen said, rising from the table and moving to a shelf in his living room. He returned with a small wooden box, intricately carved with Norse designs. "Do you know what these are?" he asked, opening the box to reveal a collection of small stones, each marked with a different symbol.

"Runes," Hilde breathed, recognizing them from her books on Norse mythology.

"Yes. These belonged to my grandmother, who was what they called a völva in the old country—a seer, a wise woman. She used these to help people find their way when they were lost."

"Were they magic?" Hilde asked, hope rising in her voice.

Mr. Olsen smiled. "The magic wasn't in the stones, Hilde. It was in getting people to stop and think. To look at their problems from a different angle. Sometimes that's all the magic we need."

"Will you teach me how to use them?"

"I will. But you must promise to use them wisely. And to remember that some problems can't be solved with stones or symbols."

"I promise," Hilde said solemnly, though in her heart she believed that the right ritual, the right arrangement, the right words might still bring her family back together permanently.

Mr. Olsen spent the next hour teaching her the basic meanings of the runes and how they could be arranged in simple patterns. Othala for family and heritage. Gebo for gifts and partnerships. Wunjo for joy and harmony. Dagaz for breakthrough and transformation.

"Now," he said when he had explained the fundamentals, "I'm not giving you these stones. They're very old and valuable. But I have something else for you." He disappeared into another room and returned with a small pouch. "These are river stones I collected and carved myself. Not as ancient as my grandmother's, but they carry the same symbols and meanings."

Hilde accepted the pouch with reverence. "Thank you, Mr. Olsen. I'll be very careful with them."

"I know you will, little völva. Now, you should head home before your mother worries. And remember—patience and attention. That's how we nurture change."

As Hilde walked the short distance from Mr. Olsen's cottage to her own home, the pouch of rune stones secure in her pocket, she thought about patience and attention. About ice thawing on Georgian Bay. About her parents finding their way back to each other after months of distance.

At home, she found her mother in the kitchen preparing dinner, the radio playing softly in the background.

"There you are," Kaja said, looking up from chopping vegetables. "I was beginning to wonder where you'd gone after school."

"I was at Mr. Olsen's," Hilde replied, setting her backpack on a chair. "He gave me these." She pulled out the pouch of rune stones, showing them to her mother.

"How lovely," Kaja examined one of the stones, running her finger over the carved symbol. "Did he explain what they mean?"

"Yes. This one is Othala—it means family and heritage. And this one is Gebo—for gifts and partnerships. And this one—" she held up a stone with what looked like an angular P—"is Wunjo, for joy and harmony."

"They're beautiful," Kaja said, returning the stones to Hilde. "Mr. Olsen is very generous to share his knowledge with you."

"He says I have the sight. Like the völva in the old stories."

"Does he now?" Kaja smiled. "And what do you see with this special sight of yours?"

Hilde looked at her mother carefully, noting the subtle changes from just days ago—the lighter movement, the occasional humming, the smile that reached her eyes now. "I see that you're happier. That things are changing."

"Yes," Kaja acknowledged. "Things are changing. Your father and I are... working on some things that have been difficult for a while."

"Because of the miscarriage?" Hilde asked.

Kaja's hands stilled on the cutting board, surprise evident in her expression. "What do you know about that?"

"I heard you and Dad talking about it last night. After Reyna and I went to bed. You said it was when things started to go wrong between you."

Her mother was silent for a moment, clearly deciding how to respond. "You have very good hearing," she said finally.

"I wasn't trying to eavesdrop," Hilde assured her. "I got up to get water and heard voices, and then I heard that word and I wasn't sure what it meant, so I listened a little more." This wasn't entirely true—she had deliberately lingered in the hallway after hearing her parents' serious tones—but it seemed kinder than admitting to intentional spying.

Kaja sighed, setting down her knife and turning to face her daughter fully. "A miscarriage is when a baby starts to grow but then stops, before it's born. It happened between when Reyna was born and when you were born. We were going to have another baby—a little boy—but we lost him."

"And that made you and Dad sad?"

"Very sad. In different ways. And we didn't... we didn't know how to be sad together. So we started being sad separately, and that created distance between us."

Hilde considered this, turning one of her rune stones over in her hand. "But now you're trying to be together again? Not sad separately?"

"Yes," Kaja smiled softly. "That's a good way to put it. We're trying to be together again—in our sadness, in our joy, in everything."

"I think that's good," Hilde said decisively. "Mr. Olsen says people aren't meant to be islands."

"Mr. Olsen is a wise man."

"He also says I should be patient. That thawing takes time and isn't always straightforward."

Kaja looked at her daughter with a mixture of amusement and wonder. "He's right about that too. This won't all be fixed overnight, Hilde. There will be good days and harder days. But we're trying, your father and I. Really trying."

"I know," Hilde said simply. "I can see it."

That evening, dinner was again a family affair, with Haden arriving home precisely at six as promised. The conversation flowed more naturally than the night before, though there were still moments of awkwardness, of adjustment to this new attempt at connection.

After the meal, while Reyna practiced her guitar in her room and their parents cleaned up in the kitchen, Hilde retreated to her bedroom to experiment with her new rune stones. She arranged them in the pattern Mr. Olsen had taught her—a simple three-stone layout meant to provide insight into a situation.

The first position, representing the past, she filled with Isa—the rune of ice and stagnation. For the present, she placed Dagaz—the rune of breakthrough and transformation. And for the future, after careful consideration, she chose Wunjo—joy and harmony.

"What are you doing?" Reyna asked from the doorway, making Hilde jump.

"Nothing," she said quickly, moving to cover the stones.

"Doesn't look like nothing," Reyna entered the room, examining the arrangement on Hilde's bedside table. "Are these those rune things Mr. Olsen is always talking about?"

"Yes. He gave them to me today. They're for... understanding things."

"What things?"

"Everything. Family things. Like what's happening with Mom and Dad."

Reyna sat on the edge of Hilde's bed, looking at the stones with skepticism. "And what do they tell you is happening?"

Hilde pointed to each stone in turn. "This one means there was stagnation—like ice that doesn't move. This one means breakthrough—a change, a transformation. And this one means joy might be coming, if the change continues in the right direction."

"Huh," Reyna said, clearly not convinced but unwilling to dismiss her sister's beliefs entirely. "And you think these rocks can actually predict the future?"

"Not predict exactly. Mr. Olsen says they help us see patterns that are already there but that we might miss otherwise. Like... like sheet music helps you see the pattern of a song."

This comparison seemed to resonate with Reyna. "Okay, I can understand that. Seeing patterns is important."

"Exactly!" Hilde beamed, pleased that her sister was taking her seriously. "And the patterns say things are getting better for our family."

"I hope you're right, squirt," Reyna said, ruffling Hilde's hair affectionately. "I really do."

After Reyna left, Hilde changed into her pajamas and prepared for bed, carefully placing her rune stones in their pouch and setting them on her bedside table. Through her bedroom wall, she could hear the low murmur of her parents' voices from their room—not arguing, not tense, just talking. The sound was comforting in its normalcy, in its suggestion of reconnection.

As she drifted toward sleep, Hilde thought about what Mr. Olsen had said about patience and attention, about the gradual process of thawing. She thought about the rune stones and their meanings, about patterns visible and invisible. And she thought about her family—broken in some ways but not beyond repair, changing day by day in small but significant ways.

Outside her window, snow began to fall softly on Georgian Bay, covering the frozen surface with a fresh layer of white. Beneath it, the ice remained solid, waiting for spring's thaw. But perhaps, Hilde thought as sleep claimed her, perhaps the thaw had already begun in the places that mattered most.

"Grandmother," she asked during their weekly video call the next evening, "why do people who love each other forget how to talk?"

Her grandmother, who had survived eighty-two Nordic winters and two husbands, simply laughed. "That, little one, is the question that built Scandinavia."

"What do you mean?" Hilde asked, puzzled by this response.

"I mean that we Scandinavians have always been good at enduring difficult things—cold winters, rough seas, rocky soil—but not always so good at talking about our feelings. It's in your blood, this tendency toward stoic silence." Her grandmother's eyes twinkled through the screen. "But it doesn't have to be your destiny."

"Mr. Olsen gave me rune stones," Hilde said, changing the subject slightly. "He says they can help people see patterns they might miss otherwise."

"Did he now? Old Olsen and his runes." Her grandmother shook her head, but fondly. "He was always fascinated by the ancient ways, even as a young man."

"You knew Mr. Olsen when he was young?" This was news to Hilde.

"Oh yes. We came to Canada around the same time, though he settled in Thornbury while I went to Toronto. We've known each other for... goodness, it must be sixty years now."

"Were you friends?"

"We were... close, for a time." Something flickered across her grandmother's face—a memory, perhaps, or a feeling long set aside. "But life took us in different directions. He married Astrid—a lovely woman, gone now for many years—and I married your grandfather."

"Do you regret it?" Hilde asked, her collector's instinct for significant moments activating. "Not marrying Mr. Olsen instead?"

Her grandmother looked surprised, then thoughtful. "No, little one. I don't regret the path I chose. Your grandfather was a good man, and our life together gave me your father and then you and Reyna. But I do sometimes wonder about the paths not taken. I think everyone does, as they get older."

"Mom and Dad are trying to find their path again," Hilde said. "They got lost for a while, but now they're trying to find each other."

"Yes, your mother mentioned things have been difficult. I'm glad to hear they're working on it."

"The runes say there's hope," Hilde said confidently. "And I can see it too. They're talking again. Really talking."

"That's the most important thing," her grandmother nodded. "Talking. Listening. Being present for each other, even when it's uncomfortable."

"Like you and Grandfather?"

"We had our challenges too, Hilde. Every marriage does. The question isn't whether difficulties come—they always do—but how you face them together."

After the call ended, Hilde sat on her bed, turning these words over in her mind. Facing difficulties together. Being present even when it's uncomfortable. Talking and listening. Such simple concepts, yet so challenging in practice, even for adults—perhaps especially for adults, who had years of habits and hurts to overcome.

She took out her rune stones, holding them in her cupped palms, feeling their smooth weight and the slight ridges of the carved symbols. Mr. Olsen had said the magic wasn't in the stones themselves but in how they helped people see differently. Perhaps that was true of many things—not magical in themselves, but in how they changed perception, opened possibilities, revealed patterns previously unseen.

With this thought in mind, Hilde began to formulate a plan—not just the simple stone arrangements Mr. Olsen had taught her, but something larger, something that might help her entire family see differently. A ritual of reconnection, drawing on the Norse traditions she had been studying but adapted for their specific needs.

She would need help, of course. Mr. Olsen for guidance on the traditional elements. Reyna for music—perhaps that Norwegian widow song that seemed to speak so directly to their situation. And her parents' willing participation, which might be the most challenging element of all.

But first, she needed to understand more about what had happened between them, about the patterns that had led to their separation and might now lead to their reunion. For that, she would need to be even more observant than usual, collecting not just moments but meanings, not just words but the silences between them.

Hilde Snjougla, age ten, self-appointed family healer and apprentice völva, fell asleep that night with her rune stones clutched in one hand and a notebook for recording observations on her bedside table. Outside, the January moon cast long shadows across the snow-covered landscape, while inside, a family began the slow, uncertain process of finding its way back to wholeness.