Silent Hearth Part 4

Part IV: September to October

Chapter 13

Haden's therapist had a beard that would make a Viking proud and a directness that made Haden squirm. Dr. Erikson had been recommended by Lars, who had apparently been seeing him for years—a fact Haden found both surprising and slightly betraying, as if his business partner had been keeping a secret life.

"You design spaces for living but don't know how to live in them," Dr. Erikson observed during their third session as September painted the trees around Thornbury in shades of red and gold. "That's quite a paradox."

Haden shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had started therapy reluctantly, prompted by a late-night conversation with Kaja over video chat where she had gently suggested it might help him process his feelings about their separation and the deeper issues in their marriage.

"I design functional spaces," Haden corrected. "Whether people know how to live in them is their business."

"Is that how you see your home? Your marriage? As the client's responsibility once you've completed the design?"

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. Haden had indeed approached his marriage much like an architectural project—design it well at the beginning, then expect it to function without further input. Maintenance, in his mind, was addressing problems as they arose, not the continuous, attentive care that relationships actually required.

"I've been assigned to restore a historic Norwegian church in Thornbury," Haden said, changing the subject. "The foundation is crumbling, but the congregation wants to preserve the original structure as much as possible."

"Interesting project," Dr. Erikson noted, allowing the deflection for the moment. "What's your approach?"

"I need to shore up the foundation without disturbing the visible structure. It's delicate work—finding the balance between necessary intervention and respectful preservation."

"Sounds like a metaphor for your current situation."

Haden gave him a look. "Do you turn everything into a metaphor?"

"Only when it works so perfectly," Dr. Erikson replied with a smile. "Tell me about your conversations with Kaja since she's been in Oslo."

The truth was, their conversations had changed. Without the pressure of physical presence, without the accumulated tensions of shared space and daily irritations, they had begun to really talk again. About her work at the residency. About his projects. About the girls. And increasingly, about themselves—their fears, their regrets, their hopes.

"She seems... happier," Haden admitted. "More like the woman I married."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Good. And sad. Because it took her leaving for that to happen."

"Distance can provide perspective. For both of you."

"I suppose," Haden acknowledged reluctantly. "But it's also just... hard. Being without her. Especially with everything else happening simultaneously—the merger integration, Reyna starting high school, the church restoration project."

"You're juggling a lot," Dr. Erikson agreed. "How are you managing the practical aspects of single parenting?"

"Better than I expected, honestly. The girls have been surprisingly adaptable. Reyna's more engaged with her music than ever, and Hilde..." He smiled despite himself. "Hilde continues to amaze me with her insights and her determination to maintain family connections through her rituals and projects."

"And what about you? How are you taking care of yourself amid all these responsibilities?"

The question caught Haden off guard. Self-care had never been high on his priority list, even in the best of times. "I'm... managing," he said finally. "Working, parenting, keeping the household running."

"That's what you're doing," Dr. Erikson observed. "Not how you're taking care of yourself."

"I don't have much time for that," Haden admitted. "Between Toronto meetings for the merger and local projects and making sure the girls are where they need to be..."

"Making time for self-care isn't selfish, Haden. It's necessary. Like the maintenance schedule for a building—skip it too often, and eventually systems start to fail."

Another architectural metaphor. Haden was beginning to see why Lars had recommended this particular therapist—someone who spoke his professional language while challenging his personal blind spots.

"What would you suggest?" he asked, surprising himself with the genuine question rather than a deflection.

"Start small," Dr. Erikson advised. "Twenty minutes of something just for you each day. Reading that isn't work-related. Walking by the bay without your phone. Whatever helps you reconnect with yourself."

"I'll try," Haden promised, though without much conviction. Finding twenty minutes that weren't already allocated seemed impossible in his current schedule.

"And consider this," the therapist added as their session was ending. "The church restoration you mentioned—you're preserving the visible structure while repairing the foundation, yes?"

"That's the goal."

"Perhaps your marriage has needed similar work. The visible structure—your home, your routines, your public presentation as a family—remained intact. But the foundation needed attention. This separation, challenging as it is, might be providing the opportunity for that foundational repair."

The insight stayed with Haden as he left the office and walked to his car. The church restoration project had indeed become a powerful metaphor in his mind—a physical manifestation of the work he and Kaja were doing on their relationship. Preserving what was valuable while strengthening what had weakened. Honoring history while ensuring future stability.

As he drove through Thornbury toward the church site for his weekly inspection, Haden found himself reflecting on Dr. Erikson's suggestion about self-care. Twenty minutes daily seemed both trivial and impossible—a small amount of time that he nonetheless couldn't imagine finding in his packed schedule. And yet, he recognized the wisdom in the advice. Buildings required regular maintenance. Why would relationships—with others or with oneself—be any different?

The Norwegian church sat on a small hill overlooking Georgian Bay, its white clapboard exterior and simple steeple a landmark visible from much of the town. Built in 1891 by Norwegian immigrants, it had served the local Scandinavian community for generations, a physical connection to the heritage many residents still claimed. Haden's own grandfather had worshipped here, finding comfort in familiar hymns and liturgy while adapting to life in a new country.

The restoration project was well underway now, the foundation work nearly complete, the structure stabilized while maintaining its historic character. As Haden walked through the building with the project foreman, discussing next steps and timeline adjustments, he found himself appreciating anew the craftsmanship of the original builders—their attention to detail, their understanding of materials, their creation of a space that had served its purpose for over a century.

"The foundation work is solid," the foreman was saying. "We've reinforced the critical areas without compromising the original design. The building should stand for another hundred years at least."

"Good," Haden nodded, examining the junction where new support met original structure. "And the interior restoration?"

"On schedule. The woodwork is being repaired section by section. We're matching the original finishes as closely as possible."

"Excellent. The congregation is eager to return to their worship space."

"They've been patient," the foreman observed. "Most clients would be pushing for faster completion, but Pastor Johansen seems to understand the value of doing this right, even if it takes longer."

"He does," Haden agreed. "He sees this building as more than just a structure—it's a physical connection to heritage, to community history, to shared values."

As they continued their inspection, Haden found himself drawing more parallels between this project and his personal situation. Both required patience. Both involved honoring what had been built while addressing underlying weaknesses. Both demanded attention to details that might seem insignificant individually but collectively determined the integrity of the whole.

After the site visit, Haden had an hour before he needed to pick up Hilde from her after-school art class. On impulse, remembering Dr. Erikson's advice about self-care, he drove to a small park overlooking Georgian Bay, parked his car, and simply sat on a bench watching the water. The September afternoon was warm but with a hint of autumn crispness in the air. Trees along the shoreline were beginning to turn, splashes of red and gold among the green. The bay itself was deep blue, whitecaps forming as the wind picked up.

Twenty minutes, he thought. Just twenty minutes to sit and breathe and be present in this moment, without checking email or making calls or solving problems. It felt strange at first, almost uncomfortable in its lack of productivity. But gradually, as he continued to watch the water, to feel the breeze, to notice the quality of the light, something eased within him—a tightness he hadn't fully recognized until it began to release.

His phone buzzed in his pocket—not with a call or text, but with the daily reminder he had set to send Kaja a message. They had established this practice early in her residency—a daily check-in, separate from their scheduled video calls, just a brief connection to bridge the physical distance. Sometimes it was as simple as "Thinking of you" or "Hope your day is going well." Other times it included updates about the girls or questions about her work.

Today, inspired by his impromptu bay-watching session, Haden typed:

Sitting by the bay, watching the water, taking twenty minutes just to breathe. Thinking of you and wondering what you see from your window in Oslo.

Her reply came quickly, suggesting she too had been taking a moment of pause in her day:

What perfect timing! I'm looking at Oslo Fjord right now, having afternoon coffee. The light is different here—softer somehow, more diffuse. But water is water, connecting us across distance.

The simple exchange, the shared moment despite being separated by thousands of miles, brought a smile to Haden's face. Water is water, connecting us across distance. Yes, that felt right—the fundamental elements of life remaining constant even as contexts changed, even as they experienced them separately.

As he drove to pick up Hilde, Haden found himself feeling lighter than he had in days. The twenty minutes of bay-watching, the brief connection with Kaja, the progress on the church restoration—small things individually, but collectively significant. Perhaps Dr. Erikson was right about the importance of self-care, of making space for reflection and presence amid the busyness of daily responsibilities.

Hilde was waiting outside the community center, her art portfolio clutched to her chest, deep in conversation with her elderly teacher. She waved when she saw Haden's car, said something final to her teacher, and hurried over.

"Dad! Look what I made today!" she exclaimed as she climbed into the passenger seat, immediately opening her portfolio to reveal a watercolor painting of Georgian Bay at sunset, the sky and water ablaze with color.

"That's beautiful, Hilde," Haden said, genuinely impressed by her developing skill. "The colors are extraordinary."

"Mrs. Peterson taught us about layering washes to create depth," Hilde explained, studying her work critically. "I think I captured the light pretty well, but the reflections on the water need work."

"I think it's perfect," Haden assured her. "Are you adding it to your Heritage Threads project?"

"Yes! It's part of my section on how the landscape shapes cultural identity. I'm comparing Georgian Bay to Norwegian fjords, showing how similar natural features influenced art and mythology in both places."

"That's a sophisticated concept," Haden observed, continually amazed by his younger daughter's intellectual depth.

"Mr. Olsen helped me develop it," Hilde admitted. "He says that people are shaped by the landscapes they inhabit, that mountains and waters become part of our internal geography."

"Mr. Olsen is very wise."

"He is," Hilde agreed seriously. "Though he says it's just because he's old and has seen the same patterns repeat through generations."

As they drove home, Hilde chattered about her day at school, her art class, her plans for the weekend. Listening to her, Haden was struck by how well she had adapted to Kaja's absence—not without difficulty or moments of missing her mother, but with a resilience and creativity that transformed challenge into opportunity for growth.

"Can we video call Mom when we get home?" Hilde asked as they turned onto their street. "I want to show her my painting while the colors are still fresh."

"Of course," Haden agreed. "Though it's evening in Oslo now—let me text her first to make sure she's available."

At home, they found Reyna in the kitchen, attempting to make dinner—pasta with a sauce that smelled promising despite the chaos surrounding its creation.

"I thought I'd try cooking tonight," she explained when Haden raised an eyebrow at the mess. "Since you had the therapy thing and then the church inspection."

"That's very thoughtful," Haden said, touched by the gesture. "Can I help?"

"Just set the table," Reyna instructed. "I've got this under control. Mostly."

As they ate dinner—the pasta sauce indeed successful despite Reyna's limited cooking experience—Haden found himself appreciating anew the ways his daughters had stepped up during Kaja's absence. Reyna taking on more household responsibilities. Hilde maintaining emotional connections through her projects and rituals. Both finding ways to grow through the challenge rather than merely enduring it.

After dinner, they connected with Kaja via video call, Hilde proudly displaying her watercolor painting, Reyna sharing news about her band's upcoming performance at a local festival, Haden providing updates on the church restoration. Kaja, for her part, showed them her latest weaving project—a piece inspired by the meeting of land and water, the liminal spaces where elements converged.

"It reminds me of your painting, Hilde," she observed. "The way the colors blend at the horizon, neither fully sky nor fully water."

"That's what I was trying to capture!" Hilde exclaimed, delighted by the connection. "The in-between place where things transform."

"Exactly," Kaja smiled. "Those threshold spaces have always fascinated me—where land meets water, where day meets night, where one season transitions into another."

"Where people are separated but still connected," Reyna added quietly.

"Yes," Kaja's expression softened. "Exactly that."

The conversation continued, touching on practical matters and deeper reflections, the distance between them simultaneously present and transcended through technology and intention. When the call ended, Haden felt the familiar mixture of connection and loss—grateful for the interaction but acutely aware of Kaja's physical absence.

Later that evening, after the girls had gone to bed, Haden retreated to his home office to work on a new design project—not for a client, but for their own home. The renovation connecting Kaja's studio to the main house was progressing well, the foundation and framing complete, the glass walls beginning to define the walkway that would link their separate creative spaces.

But Haden had been thinking beyond this initial project, considering other modifications that might better serve their family's evolving needs. The church restoration had inspired him—the idea of preserving what was valuable while strengthening what had weakened, of honoring history while ensuring future stability.

He opened his design software and began working on concepts for their bedroom and adjoining spaces. Currently, the master suite was standard in its layout—bedroom, bathroom, walk-in closet. But what if he reconfigured it to include a small shared office area? A space where he and Kaja could work side by side when desired, maintaining their separate professional focuses while sharing physical proximity?

The idea had come to him during his bay-watching session that afternoon, a recognition that their marriage needed both connection and independence, both shared experience and individual growth. The glass walkway to Kaja's studio embodied this balance for her creative work. Perhaps their personal spaces could be similarly reimagined.

As he worked on the design, Haden found himself enjoying the creative process in a way he hadn't for some time. This wasn't about client requirements or budget constraints or zoning regulations. It was about creating space for the life he and Kaja were rebuilding together—a physical manifestation of their emotional reconstruction.

He was so absorbed in the work that he lost track of time, startled when his phone buzzed with a text from Kaja:

It's late there. Are you still up working?

He smiled at her intuition and replied:

Guilty. Lost in a design project. How did you know?

Because I know you. When you're processing emotions, you often turn to design. What are you working on?

Ideas for our bedroom renovation. Creating a shared office space within our personal area. A place for connection that still honors individual work.

I love that concept. Will you show me the designs when we talk tomorrow?

Of course. Now go enjoy your morning coffee. I'll try to get some sleep.

As he prepared for bed, Haden reflected on the day—the therapy session that had challenged him, the church inspection that had inspired him, the twenty minutes of bay-watching that had centered him, the family dinner and video call that had connected him, the design work that had engaged him. Each element distinct but interconnected, forming a whole that felt, if not perfectly balanced, at least intentionally constructed.

Dr. Erikson's words came back to him: "You design spaces for living but don't know how to live in them." Perhaps that was changing. Perhaps, through this challenging period of separation and reconstruction, he was learning not just to design life but to fully inhabit it—with all its complexities, its imperfections, its moments of both struggle and beauty.

Outside his window, Georgian Bay reflected the September moon, its surface a constantly shifting pattern of light and shadow. Inside, the house settled around him, creaking occasionally as old houses do, the sound somehow comforting in its familiarity. In Oslo, Kaja would be starting her day, perhaps looking out at a different body of water under the same moon, connected to him across distance by invisible threads of shared history and renewed commitment.

The foundation work was progressing, in the church on the hill and in their marriage across the ocean. Not complete, not perfect, but steadily strengthening, preparing to support whatever structure they would continue to build together in the years ahead.

 

Chapter 14

Kaja in Oslo experienced both freedom and unexpected loneliness. The residency provided everything promised—a spacious studio with northern light, access to materials and equipment she'd only dreamed of using, the company of seven other textile artists from around the world, and the vibrant cultural life of a city steeped in the traditions that had influenced her work from the beginning.

And yet, there were moments—walking along the harbor in the evening light, discovering a small café that served cardamom buns exactly like her grandmother's, hearing children laugh in a park—when the absence of her family hit her with physical force. Not a constant ache, but intermittent pangs of missing that surprised her with their intensity.

September in Oslo brought shorter days, a crispness to the air that reminded her of Thornbury, and a quality of light that transformed the city into a painter's dream—golden hues washing over historic buildings, the fjord reflecting sky in constantly shifting patterns. Her studio at the residency center overlooked the water, providing daily inspiration as she worked on the projects that had begun to evolve beyond her initial proposals.

Her art had transformed in this new environment, moving beyond the safe patterns she had perfected over years of commercial success. Her new work explored themes of connection and separation—weavings where threads appeared to break but actually continued beneath the surface, emerging again in unexpected places. Colors that seemed discordant at first glance but resolved into harmony when viewed as a whole. Techniques that combined traditional Norwegian methods with contemporary innovations.

"Your work has transformed," observed Elise, the residency director, during their mid-program review. "There's a new depth, a willingness to explore tension rather than just harmony."

"I suppose I'm drawing on personal experience," Kaja admitted, studying the large piece currently on her loom—a weaving that incorporated actual letters from home, fragments of text visible among the threads.

"The best art usually does," Elise nodded, a woman in her sixties with silver hair and penetrating eyes that missed nothing. "And how are you finding the separation from your family? It's been... what, six weeks now?"

"Almost seven," Kaja corrected, the count automatic in her mind. "It's been challenging but also valuable. We're connecting in different ways—more intentional, more articulate perhaps, without the shortcuts that physical presence allows."

"And your work reflects that—these pieces about visible and invisible connections, about communication across distances."

"Yes," Kaja agreed, pleased by the observation. "I'm interested in how separation can sometimes reveal connections that proximity obscures. How distance creates a different kind of seeing."

"A powerful theme," Elise commented. "And timely, in our world of digital connections and physical dispersal."

After the review, Kaja returned to her weaving, losing herself in the rhythm of the work, in the gradual emergence of pattern from individual threads. There was something meditative about the process—the repetitive movements, the focus required, the balance of planning and intuition that had always drawn her to this art form.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Reyna:

Band got selected for the harvest festival main stage! Playing Saturday afternoon. Wish you could be here.

Kaja smiled at the news, typing back:

That's wonderful! I'm so proud of you. Will someone record it so I can watch later?

Sounds perfect. I want to see every detail. What songs are you performing?

An original? You didn't mention you were composing.

It's new. Still working on it. Might be terrible.

I doubt that very much. Can't wait to hear it.

The exchange warmed Kaja, evidence of her daughter's continuing artistic development despite—or perhaps partly because of—the separation. Reyna had embraced her exploration of Norwegian musical traditions with unexpected enthusiasm, finding in that heritage a connection not just to distant ancestors but to her temporarily distant mother.

The weekly video calls with her family had become the anchoring points of Kaja's Oslo experience—Sunday evenings for them, afternoon for her, when they would gather around screens on opposite sides of the Atlantic to share their lives. Hilde showing her latest art projects and mythology discoveries. Reyna playing new musical arrangements or discussing band developments. Haden updating her on the house renovation progress and merger integration challenges.

And increasingly, as the weeks passed, deeper conversations as well—reflections on what they were learning through the separation, insights about their relationships, hopes for the future when they would be together again. The distance seemed to facilitate a kind of honesty that proximity had sometimes hindered, as if the screen between them created a safe space for vulnerability.

The daily texts and occasional impromptu calls filled the spaces between these weekly anchors—small connections that maintained the fabric of family life across distance. Haden's morning messages (evening for her) had become particularly meaningful, often containing observations or reflections that revealed his ongoing emotional growth.

Today's had been especially touching:

Watching the sunrise over Georgian Bay and thinking of you. The church restoration is teaching me about patience, about the value of careful repair rather than hasty reconstruction. Perhaps our marriage needed similar care—attention to foundation before facade. Missing you but grateful for what we're learning apart.

She had replied:

Sunset over Oslo Fjord as I read this. Your insights move me. I'm learning too—about the strength of connections that transcend physical presence, about the value of perspective that distance provides. Seven weeks apart has taught me more about us than years together in some ways. Missing you but growing toward you.

Now, as evening approached and the studio gradually emptied of other artists returning to their accommodations, Kaja remained at her loom, wanting to complete the section she was working on before leaving for the day. This particular piece had become the centerpiece of her residency work—a large-scale weaving that incorporated elements from each of the letters, drawings, and photographs her family had sent.

Threads of indigo for Georgian Bay, silver for the Norwegian fjords, red for Reyna's music, green for Hilde's connection to nature, and gold—the color of wedding rings and harvest fields—running throughout, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden beneath other colors but always present. The composition was complex but unified, representing the interweaving of separate lives into a shared narrative that could stretch across distance without breaking.

"It's coming together beautifully," commented Nils, one of the Norwegian master weavers who served as mentors for the residency program. He had entered the studio quietly, observing her work before speaking.

"Thank you," Kaja replied, pausing to study the emerging pattern with fresh eyes. "It's the most personal piece I've ever created."

"The best work often is," Nils nodded, his weathered hands—the hands of someone who had worked with fiber for decades—gesturing toward the weaving. "I particularly appreciate how you're incorporating the text elements—visible but not dominant, integral to the structure rather than merely decorative."

"That was important to me," Kaja explained. "The words are foundational, supporting the visual elements rather than competing with them."

"Like your family supporting your artistic development," Nils observed with the insight that had made him a valued mentor. "Present in the work even when not immediately visible."

"Exactly," Kaja smiled, appreciating his understanding. "They're woven into everything I create, whether literally or figuratively."

After completing the section and cleaning her workspace, Kaja walked back to her small apartment near the residency center. The September evening was cool but pleasant, the city transitioning from workday to evening rhythms around her. She had come to enjoy these solitary walks, using them as time to process her experiences, to observe her surroundings with an artist's eye, to bridge her creative work and personal reflections.

Her apartment was small but comfortable—a studio with large windows, simple furnishings, and a small balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard. She had made it her own over the weeks, adding touches that connected her to home—Hilde's drawings pinned to the wall, the protection charm hanging by the door, photographs of Georgian Bay beside images of Oslo Fjord, creating visual dialogue between her two worlds.

As she prepared a simple dinner, Kaja found herself thinking about Haden's impending visit. In just three days, he would arrive for the weekend—their first in-person reunion since her departure in August. The anticipation was both exciting and slightly anxiety-producing. Would the connection they had been rebuilding through digital communication translate to physical presence? Would the growth they had each experienced separately create new understanding or unexpected friction when reunited?

Her phone rang—not a scheduled call, which made it unusual. Seeing Haden's name on the screen, she felt a momentary concern.

"Hello? Is everything okay?" she answered.

"Everything's fine," he assured her quickly. "I just... I wanted to hear your voice. Is that okay?"

The simple admission—of wanting, of needing connection beyond text—warmed her. "Of course it's okay. It's wonderful, actually. I was just making dinner and thinking about your visit."

"That's partly why I called," Haden said. "I've been finalizing arrangements and wanted to confirm my arrival time. The flight gets in at 2:15 on Friday afternoon."

"Perfect. I've arranged to take Friday afternoon off from the studio. I can meet you at the airport."

"I'd like that," he said, his voice softening. "Though I could take a taxi if it's complicated with your schedule."

"It's not complicated at all," Kaja assured him. "I want to be there when you arrive."

They continued talking—about his travel plans, about her schedule for the weekend, about which Oslo sights she most wanted to share with him. Beneath the practical conversation ran deeper currents—anticipation, affection, the awareness of how significant this reunion would be in their ongoing reconstruction.

"How are the girls about you coming?" Kaja asked. "Are they okay with being with your mother for the weekend?"

"They're fine," Haden assured her. "Excited about staying with Grandma, who is apparently planning a full program of activities. And they understand that this is important for us—to have some time together before the family visit next month."

"They've matured so much through this experience," Kaja observed. "Both of them."

"They have," Haden agreed. "In different ways. Reyna's found her voice—literally and figuratively—through her music and her role in the band. And Hilde... well, Hilde continues to amaze me with her insights and her determination to maintain family connections through her rituals and projects."

"And you?" Kaja asked softly. "How have you changed through this experience?"

Haden was quiet for a moment, considering the question. "I'm more present," he said finally. "More aware of what matters, of how precious our connections are. More willing to be vulnerable, to acknowledge needs and fears instead of hiding behind work or routine."

"The therapy has helped?" Kaja had been cautiously supportive of his decision to see Dr. Erikson, knowing Haden's historical resistance to such interventions.

"It has," he admitted. "More than I expected. Erikson has a way of using architectural metaphors that somehow makes emotional concepts more accessible to me."

"That sounds perfect for you," Kaja smiled, imagining these sessions. "And I've noticed the difference in our conversations—your willingness to discuss feelings directly, to acknowledge vulnerabilities."

"It's still not easy," Haden confessed. "But it's getting easier with practice. And the distance has helped in some ways—talking through a screen sometimes feels safer for those deeper discussions."

"I've felt that too," Kaja agreed. "As if the physical separation creates space for emotional connection."

"Exactly. Though I'm very ready to test whether we can maintain that connection in person."

"Three more days," Kaja reminded him, her own anticipation evident in her voice. "It feels both forever and no time at all."

After they ended the call, Kaja finished preparing her dinner and took it to the small balcony, eating as the September twilight deepened around her. The conversation with Haden had left her thoughtful, reflecting on the changes in their relationship over these weeks of separation.

They had been married for nineteen years, had created a home and family together, had built parallel careers in their respective creative fields. And yet in some ways, they were only now truly getting to know each other—or perhaps re-knowing each other, seeing with fresh eyes what familiarity had obscured.

The following days passed in a blur of creative work and practical preparations for Haden's visit. Kaja completed a significant section of her centerpiece weaving, participated in a workshop on traditional Norwegian dyeing techniques, and gave a presentation to the other residents about her exploration of heritage and separation in her current work.

In the evenings, she prepared her small apartment for Haden's arrival—clearing space in the closet, purchasing his favorite coffee for the morning, planning which Oslo experiences she most wanted to share with him during his brief visit. The anticipation built steadily, a mixture of excitement and nervous energy that reminded her of earlier days in their relationship, before familiarity had dulled the edge of expectation.

Friday arrived clear and cool, a perfect September day in Oslo. Kaja found herself unable to focus on her weaving, her mind constantly drifting to Haden's approaching arrival. By noon, she gave up the pretense of work, cleaned her studio space, and informed Elise that she was leaving for the day.

"Of course," the director smiled knowingly. "Your husband arrives today, yes? The first reunion is significant. Take the time you need."

At the airport, Kaja waited near the international arrivals gate, watching as passengers emerged from customs—business travelers moving briskly, tourists looking slightly bewildered, families reuniting with embraces and exclamations. And then, finally, Haden—taller than most around him, his dark hair now visibly threaded with silver at the temples, his face showing signs of fatigue from the long journey but lighting up when he spotted her in the waiting area.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the diminishing distance, taking in the physical reality after weeks of screen-mediated connection. Then they were embracing, the familiar scent and feel of him overwhelming Kaja with a wave of emotion—joy and relief and a profound sense of homecoming despite being thousands of miles from their actual home.

"You're here," she said when they finally separated enough to see each other's faces. "You're really here."

"I'm here," he confirmed, his hands still on her waist as if reluctant to break contact completely. "You look beautiful. Different somehow."

"Different how?" she asked, curious about his perception.

"More... vibrant? As if you're fully inhabiting your skin in a way you weren't before." He smiled slightly. "That probably sounds strange."

"No," Kaja shook her head. "It makes perfect sense. I feel that way—more fully myself, more connected to my creative core. The residency has been transformative in ways I didn't anticipate."

"It shows," Haden said simply. "In the best possible way."

They made their way from the airport via train to the city center, talking easily about his journey, about practical matters related to his visit, about news from home that hadn't been shared in their recent calls. The conversation flowed naturally, without the awkwardness Kaja had half-feared might characterize their first in-person interaction after so much time apart.

At her apartment, Haden set down his small suitcase and moved immediately to the wall where she had pinned Hilde's drawings and photographs from home.

"You've created a Georgian Bay corner," he observed, studying the images. "A piece of home in Oslo."

"It helps on the homesick days," Kaja admitted. "To see familiar landscapes, familiar faces."

"Are there many? Homesick days?"

"Some," she acknowledged honestly. "Usually triggered by small things—hearing a child laugh in a way that reminds me of Hilde, seeing a teenager with a guitar case who could be Reyna, catching a glimpse of someone with your profile in a café."

Haden nodded understanding. "I have similar moments. The house feels different without you—still home, but with something essential missing."

"And yet we're managing," Kaja observed. "All of us. Finding ways to grow through the separation rather than just enduring it."

"We are," Haden agreed. "Though that doesn't mean we don't miss you terribly."

The simple admission—direct, undefensive—was evidence of his emotional growth over these weeks apart. The Haden of months ago would have minimized the feeling, would have focused on practical adaptations rather than acknowledging the pain of absence.

"I miss you too," Kaja said softly. "All of you. Every day. But I'm also grateful for this time, for what it's teaching me about myself and about us."

They spent the afternoon walking through Oslo, Kaja showing Haden her favorite discoveries—the harbor area where she often walked in the evenings, the small café that served cardamom buns like her grandmother's, the historic buildings that had inspired elements in her recent weavings. As they walked, they continued talking, moving gradually from surface observations to deeper reflections on their experiences during the separation.

"The therapy has been challenging," Haden admitted as they sat in a café overlooking the fjord, late afternoon light gilding the water. "Erikson doesn't let me hide behind intellectual analysis or professional metaphors, though he uses them skillfully to help me access emotions I've kept walled off."

"What's been the most difficult part?" Kaja asked, genuinely curious about his internal journey.

Haden considered the question seriously. "Acknowledging fear," he said finally. "Recognizing how much of my behavior—the workaholism, the emotional distance, the retreat into routine—was driven by fear of loss, fear of inadequacy, fear of the vulnerability that true intimacy requires."

"That's a profound insight," Kaja observed, moved by his honesty. "And how are you addressing those fears now?"

"By naming them, first of all. By recognizing their origins—some in childhood experiences, some in our own history together, particularly after the miscarriage." He paused, the reference to their lost child still difficult but no longer impossible to discuss. "And by practicing small acts of vulnerability, gradually building tolerance for the discomfort it initially causes."

"Like calling just to hear my voice," Kaja suggested. "Or sharing your therapy insights in our conversations."

"Exactly," Haden nodded. "Small steps that gradually make larger ones possible."

As evening approached, they returned to Kaja's apartment, where she had planned a simple dinner—Norwegian ingredients prepared with techniques she had learned from local friends at the residency. They cooked together in the small kitchen, moving around each other with the familiar choreography of long partnership, yet with a new awareness, a fresh appreciation for the ordinary intimacy of shared tasks.

Over dinner, they continued their conversation, Kaja sharing insights from her own journey—the creative breakthroughs, the personal discoveries, the new perspectives on their relationship that distance had provided.

"I've realized how much I need both connection and independence," she explained. "Not as opposing forces but as complementary elements of a balanced life. The residency has given me space to focus intensely on my creative work, which has been incredibly fulfilling. But that fulfillment is deepened, not diminished, by sharing it with you and the girls, by maintaining our bonds across the distance."

"That balance is what I've tried to create in the renovation designs," Haden said. "The glass walkway connecting your studio to the main house—visible connection while maintaining separate creative space. And the new bedroom layout I've been working on, with the shared office area within our personal space."

"I love that concept," Kaja smiled. "It physically embodies what we're learning emotionally—that healthy connection includes both togetherness and separateness, both shared experience and individual growth."

After dinner, they moved to the small living area, sitting close together on the sofa, the physical proximity both familiar and newly significant after weeks of separation. Haden reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers in a gesture that had become meaningful again through its absence and return.

"I brought something for you," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand. "A small gift."

He produced a velvet pouch, placing it in her palm. Kaja opened it to find a silver pendant—a simple design of intertwined circles on a delicate chain.

"It's beautiful," she said, lifting it to examine the craftsmanship. "The design is..."

"Norse-inspired," Haden finished for her. "It's a traditional symbol for continuous connection—no beginning, no end, separate elements forming an unbroken whole."

"Like us," Kaja observed softly. "Separate but connected."

"Exactly. I found it at a small jewelry shop in Thornbury, owned by a Norwegian-Canadian artisan. When I explained what I was looking for—a symbol of connection across distance—she showed me this design and explained its traditional meaning."

Kaja turned, lifting her hair so Haden could fasten the necklace around her neck. The pendant settled just below her collarbone, the silver warm against her skin.

"Thank you," she said, turning back to face him. "For the gift, but more importantly, for understanding what this experience means to me—not escape or separation, but growth that ultimately strengthens our connection."

"I understand that now," Haden acknowledged. "Though I'll admit I didn't fully grasp it at first. It's taken time and reflection—and yes, therapy—to recognize that supporting your journey isn't just about tolerating absence but about valuing your development as an artist and as an individual."

The evening continued with more conversation, more sharing of experiences and insights, more reconnection on multiple levels. When they finally prepared for sleep, there was a moment of slight awkwardness—the first of the day—as they navigated the transition from talking to physical intimacy after weeks apart.

"This feels like the early days," Kaja admitted with a small laugh. "When everything was both familiar and new."

"It does," Haden agreed, his expression a mixture of desire and tenderness. "And that's not entirely a bad thing, is it? To rediscover each other this way?"

"Not bad at all," Kaja confirmed, moving into his embrace. "Another gift of the separation—the chance to see with fresh eyes what familiarity had obscured."

Later, lying together in the narrow bed that somehow accommodated them perfectly, Kaja felt a profound sense of rightness—of pieces fitting together that had been misaligned for too long. The physical reunion had been sweet, but the emotional and intellectual reconnection was equally significant—the sense that they were truly seeing and understanding each other in ways that proximity had sometimes hindered.

"What are you thinking?" Haden asked softly, his fingers tracing patterns on her shoulder in the darkness.

"That distance has paradoxically brought us closer," Kaja replied. "That separation has revealed connections that were always there but sometimes hidden beneath daily routines and accumulated tensions."

"Like your weaving," Haden observed. "Threads that appear to break but actually continue beneath the surface, emerging again in unexpected places."

"Exactly like that," Kaja smiled, touched by his understanding of her artistic metaphors. "You've been paying attention to my work descriptions in our calls."

"Of course I have," Haden said simply. "Your work is an extension of you, an expression of how you see and understand the world. Paying attention to it is another way of knowing you."

The insight—so obvious yet so profound—brought tears to Kaja's eyes. How long had it been since they had truly paid this kind of attention to each other's creative expressions? Since they had recognized their work as not just professional output but windows into their inner landscapes?

"I love you," she whispered, the words carrying layers of meaning beyond their simple surface. "Not just who you were when we met, or who you've been through our years together, but who you're becoming now, through all of this."

"And I love you," Haden replied, his voice equally soft in the darkness. "Your courage in taking this journey, your openness to growth and change, your willingness to weave new patterns from old threads."

They fell asleep in each other's arms, the Oslo night quiet around them, the distance between Thornbury and Norway temporarily collapsed in this small apartment where they had found each other anew. Outside, the fjord reflected moonlight much as Georgian Bay did thousands of miles away—water connecting to water across continents, just as their hearts connected across the distance that would soon separate them again but could no longer truly divide them.

The weekend passed too quickly—walks through Oslo's parks and historic districts, visits to museums and galleries, quiet meals in small restaurants Kaja had discovered during her residency. And most significantly, time in her studio, where Haden could see firsthand the work she had been describing in their calls and messages.

"It's extraordinary," he said, standing before her centerpiece weaving, taking in the complex interplay of colors and textures, the visible and hidden connections, the fragments of text emerging from and disappearing into the larger pattern. "Photos didn't capture the dimensionality, the way it changes as you move around it."

"That was intentional," Kaja explained. "I wanted it to reveal different aspects from different perspectives—like relationships, like family connections that shift and evolve as our viewpoint changes."

"The gold threads," Haden observed, noticing how they ran throughout the piece, sometimes prominent, sometimes barely visible. "They're constant but changing in visibility."

"Yes," Kaja nodded, pleased by his perception. "They represent our core connection—always present even when obscured by other elements, always providing structure and continuity through changes in pattern."

On Sunday afternoon, as Haden's departure approached, they sat in the same café where they had talked on his first day—completing a circle, returning to the beginning before separating again. The mood was different now—not the nervous anticipation of reunion but the bittersweet awareness of imminent parting, tempered by the knowledge that their connection had been strengthened rather than weakened by the weekend together.

"Four more weeks," Haden said, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Then you'll be home."

"With so much to bring back," Kaja nodded. "Not just the physical weavings, but everything I've learned and experienced here—about my art, about myself, about us."

"And in the meantime, the girls and I will visit next month for their fall break. Another reunion to look forward to."

"I can't wait to show them Oslo, to share this experience with them directly rather than through screens and stories."

As they walked to the train that would take Haden back to the airport, they continued making plans—for the family visit in October, for her return in November, for the completion of the home renovations that would create new spaces for their reconstructed relationship. The practical discussions provided structure for the emotional complexity of parting, giving form to the awareness that this separation was temporary, that reunion was not just hoped for but concretely planned.

At the security checkpoint, they embraced one final time, holding each other close in the busy terminal where other travelers moved around them in constant flow.

"Thank you for coming," Kaja said softly. "For making this journey."

"Thank you for sharing your Oslo life with me," Haden replied. "For helping me see what this experience means to you."

They separated reluctantly, Haden moving toward the security line, Kaja remaining in the public area. He turned back once to wave, and she raised her hand in response, the silver pendant he had given her catching the light as she moved.

The journey back to her apartment was quiet, reflective, a gradual transition from the intensity of their reunion to the solitude of her Oslo life. But it was a different solitude now—not isolation but intentional independence, not loneliness but productive solitude that would feed both her creative work and their relationship upon reunion.

That evening, as she returned to her loom in the residency studio for a few hours of work before sleep, Kaja found herself weaving with renewed purpose and clarity. The weekend with Haden had provided not just emotional reconnection but artistic inspiration—new insights into the themes of separation and connection that had been driving her work, fresh perspectives on how to express the complex interplay of distance and intimacy that characterized their current experience.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Haden:

Landed safely in Toronto. Connecting flight to Georgian Bay in one hour. Thank you for a transformative weekend. Carrying you with me always, across whatever distance separates us.

She smiled at the message, at the evidence of his continuing emotional openness even as physical distance reasserted itself between them. She typed back:

Back at my loom, weaving with new inspiration after our time together. Safe travels home. Give the girls my love tomorrow. Counting days until October.

Outside the studio windows, Oslo's evening lights reflected on the fjord, creating patterns of illumination on the dark water. Inside, Kaja's hands moved steadily across the loom, creating patterns of her own—threads connecting and separating, disappearing and reemerging, forming a whole that was both structured and organic, both planned and discovered in the making.

Like their marriage, she thought. Like the family they had created together. Like the love that had endured through difficulties and distance, that was being rewoven now with greater awareness, deeper appreciation, and renewed commitment to the complex, beautiful pattern they were creating together.

 

 

Chapter 15

Reyna stepped up to help maintain family stability in her mother's absence, though she would have died rather than admit this was her intention. It began with small things—making sure Hilde had lunch money, reminding her father about school events, taking over some of the cooking when it became clear that Haden's culinary skills extended to exactly three meals, all of which involved pasta.

"You don't have to do all this," her father said one evening in late September as she set the table for dinner—a vegetable stir-fry she had learned to make from a YouTube video.

"Someone has to," she replied with a shrug. "Unless you want to eat spaghetti again."

"I could learn to cook other things."

"Dad, you burned water last week."

"That's not technically possible."

"And yet, you managed it."

Their relationship had shifted during her mother's absence. Without Kaja to serve as buffer and translator between them, they had been forced to develop their own language of communication—one that involved more direct statements, occasional arguments, and a growing mutual respect.

The incident in August—her disappearance to her grandmother's house, the frantic search, the emotional breakthrough that followed—had marked a turning point. Since then, Reyna had found herself more willing to engage directly with her father, to express both frustrations and appreciations, to acknowledge his efforts even when they fell short of perfect.

And he, in turn, had become more present, more attentive to the emotional undercurrents of family life, more willing to acknowledge his own limitations and mistakes. The therapy he had been attending seemed to be helping, though Reyna would never admit she had googled Dr. Erikson and read his professional profile with intense interest.

"How was school today?" Haden asked, helping her finish setting the table while Hilde completed her homework at the kitchen counter.

"Fine," Reyna replied automatically, then caught herself. "Actually, it was pretty good. Ms. Larsson liked my arrangement for the harvest festival. She said it shows 'sophisticated understanding of traditional forms while introducing contemporary elements.'"

"That sounds like high praise," Haden observed, clearly pleased by her more detailed response. "When is the festival again?"

"Saturday afternoon. We perform at two o'clock on the main stage." Reyna tried to keep her tone casual, though the opportunity was significant—the main stage at Thornbury's annual harvest festival was usually reserved for professional musicians or advanced amateurs, not high school bands.

"I've blocked the entire afternoon in my calendar," Haden assured her. "Lars is handling the Toronto meeting so I can be there."

The simple statement—evidence that her father was prioritizing her performance over work commitments—meant more than Reyna wanted to acknowledge. "Cool," she said, turning away to hide the flush of pleasure his words had triggered. "It's not a big deal or anything."

"It is a big deal," Haden contradicted gently. "Your first major public performance of original compositions. I wouldn't miss it."

"Can I come too?" Hilde asked, looking up from her math worksheet. "Or is it just for Dad?"

"Of course you can come, squirt," Reyna replied, ruffling her sister's hair as she passed. "The whole family should be there. Well, except Mom, obviously."

"Mom will be there in spirit," Hilde said with certainty. "And we'll record it for her to watch in Oslo."

"Dad already promised to film it," Reyna confirmed. "He's talking about multiple camera angles and professional audio, so prepare for overkill."

"Not overkill," Haden protested mildly. "Just thorough documentation for your mother and for posterity."

The easy banter continued through dinner, the three of them finding a rhythm of conversation and connection that had been developing over the weeks of Kaja's absence. It wasn't the same as when their mother was present—there was still an empty space at the table, still moments when they all felt her absence acutely—but it was its own kind of wholeness, its own pattern of family interaction.

After dinner, while Haden helped Hilde with her remaining homework, Reyna retreated to her room to practice guitar. The harvest festival was just days away, and while the band had rehearsed extensively, she wanted to ensure her solo sections were flawless. Particularly for "The Sea Widow," which had evolved from a simple folk arrangement into something more complex and personal—a musical exploration of separation and connection that paralleled her family's current experience.

Her fingers moved confidently across the strings, finding the patterns that had become familiar through hours of practice. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, with modal shifts that created an otherworldly quality, a sense of connection to something ancient and enduring. Her arrangement had preserved these traditional elements while introducing contemporary harmonies and rhythmic variations, creating a bridge between past and present, between Norwegian heritage and Canadian context.

A knock at her door interrupted her practice. "Come in," she called, expecting Hilde with another question about her math homework.

Instead, her father entered, looking slightly hesitant. "Sorry to interrupt. That sounded beautiful."

"Thanks," Reyna said, setting her guitar aside. "Just working on the final details for Saturday."

"It's coming together well," Haden observed, remaining in the doorway as if unsure of his welcome in this teenage sanctuary. "I particularly like the bridge section you've added—the shift from minor to major creates a powerful emotional effect."

Reyna looked at him with surprise. Her father had always been supportive of her music in a general way, but this specific observation suggested he had been listening more carefully than she realized.

"You noticed that?"

"Of course," he replied, seeming slightly hurt by her surprise. "It's a brilliant compositional choice—suggesting hope emerging from sorrow, possibility from loss."

"That's exactly what I was trying to convey," Reyna said, genuinely impressed by his perception. "How the woman in the song maintains hope despite all evidence that her husband is lost at sea."

"It made me think of your mother's weaving project—the one she showed me in Oslo with the gold threads running throughout, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden but always present."

The parallel hadn't occurred to Reyna, but now that her father mentioned it, she could see the connection. "I guess we're both exploring similar themes in different media."

"You are," Haden nodded. "And both creating something beautiful from the experience of separation."

The observation hung between them for a moment—simple but profound, acknowledging both the pain of their current family situation and the growth it had stimulated.

"Dad?" Reyna asked, suddenly curious. "Do you think it was worth it? Mom going to Oslo, I mean. Even with how hard it's been sometimes?"

Haden considered the question seriously, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. "Yes," he said finally. "I do. Not because the separation itself is valuable, but because what we're all learning through it is. Your mother's artistic development. Your musical explorations. Hilde's mythology studies. My own... growth through therapy and single parenting." He smiled slightly. "Even my improved cooking skills, limited as they remain."

"You can make four pasta dishes now," Reyna acknowledged with a small smile. "That's a 33% improvement."

"Exactly. Progress, not perfection."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the easy conversation still somewhat novel in their evolving relationship.

"I have something to ask you," Haden said finally. "A favor, actually."

"What kind of favor?" Reyna asked, immediately suspicious.

"Hilde and I are planning a surprise for your mother when she returns in November. A welcome home celebration with elements from each of our Heritage Threads projects. I was hoping you might perform your Norwegian arrangements as part of it."

"Of course," Reyna agreed immediately. "That's not even a favor—I was planning to play for her anyway."

"The favor part is helping to keep it a secret during your October visit to Oslo. We want it to be a complete surprise when she returns."

"I can do that," Reyna nodded. "I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Too good sometimes," Haden observed wryly, clearly referencing her disappearance to her grandmother's house in August.

"I said I was sorry about that," Reyna protested, though without real heat. The incident had been thoroughly discussed and resolved in the weeks since.

"I know," Haden assured her. "Just teasing. Poorly, apparently."

"Your dad jokes need work," Reyna informed him. "But your listening skills are improving, so there's hope."

"High praise indeed," Haden smiled, standing to leave. "I'll let you get back to your practice. Just wanted to check if you need anything for Saturday. Equipment? Transportation for your bandmates?"

"I think we're covered," Reyna replied. "Jonas's dad is bringing the amps and speakers in his van. We just need to be there by noon for setup and sound check."

"Perfect. I'll make sure you're there on time."

After her father left, Reyna returned to her guitar practice, but with a slightly different focus—attending more consciously to the emotional narrative of her arrangement, to the way the music expressed themes of separation and connection, loss and hope. Her father's observations had given her a new perspective on her own work, helping her see connections to her mother's artistic explorations that she hadn't previously recognized.

The days leading up to the harvest festival passed in a blur of final preparations—band rehearsals, equipment checks, last-minute adjustments to arrangements. By Saturday morning, Reyna found herself in a state of nervous anticipation, her stomach tight with a mixture of excitement and anxiety about the performance ahead.

"You'll be amazing," Hilde assured her at breakfast, somehow sensing her sister's unspoken concerns. "Your music speaks to people. Mr. Olsen says it carries ancestral memories."

"Mr. Olsen says a lot of things," Reyna replied, though she was secretly touched by the vote of confidence. "Most of them cryptic and impossible to verify."

"But often true nonetheless," Haden observed, placing a plate of only slightly burned pancakes on the table. "And in this case, I think he's right. Your arrangements do carry something beyond the notes themselves—a connection to heritage, to shared human experience."

"Now you sound like Mr. Olsen," Reyna complained, though the praise warmed her. "Next you'll be talking about runes and rituals."

"I draw the line at runes," Haden smiled. "But I do believe music can express things words cannot, can connect us across time and distance in powerful ways."

"Like how your arrangements will connect Mom to us even though she's in Oslo," Hilde added. "When she hears the recording, she'll feel like she was there."

The harvest festival transformed Thornbury's waterfront park into a celebration of local culture and agriculture—vendor booths selling produce and crafts, food stalls offering seasonal treats, activities for children, and multiple performance areas featuring local musicians and artists. The main stage, positioned to showcase Georgian Bay as a backdrop, was reserved for featured performers selected through a competitive application process.

Reyna and her bandmates—Mika on drums, Jonas on bass, and Elias on keyboard—arrived at noon as planned, joining the organized chaos of setup and sound check. Despite their youth, they approached the process with professional focus, working with the sound technicians to ensure optimal audio quality, arranging their equipment efficiently, running through key sections of songs to test levels and acoustics.

"This is really happening," Mika whispered to Reyna as they finished their sound check. "We're actually performing on the main stage."

"Try not to throw up," Reyna advised, her own stomach fluttering with nerves despite her outward calm. "At least not on your drum kit."

"Solid advice," Jonas grinned, adjusting his bass strap. "Save any vomiting for after we play."

By one-thirty, they were ready—instruments tuned, equipment checked, set list confirmed. Reyna found a quiet corner backstage to center herself, running through the songs mentally while trying to control her accelerating heart rate. She was so focused on her pre-performance routine that she didn't notice her father's approach until he spoke.

"Nervous?" Haden asked, startling her slightly.

"Terrified," Reyna admitted, the honesty surprising them both. "What if I mess up? What if people hate it? What if—"

"Stop," Haden said gently, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Take a breath."

Reyna complied, inhaling deeply and then exhaling slowly.

"Good," Haden nodded. "Now remember why you're doing this. Not for the audience's approval, not for perfect technical execution, but to express something meaningful through your music. To connect with heritage, with emotion, with the human experience of separation and hope."

The reminder shifted something in Reyna's perspective, calming the worst of her anxiety. "When did you get so wise about performance psychology?" she asked, only half-joking.

"I give presentations to clients regularly," Haden reminded her. "Different context, same fundamental challenges. And..." he hesitated briefly, "your mother gave me similar advice before my first major architectural competition. It helped then. I hoped it might help now."

The mention of Kaja brought a fresh wave of emotion—wishing her mother could be present for this milestone, grateful for her father's unexpected channeling of maternal wisdom.

"It does help," Reyna acknowledged. "Thanks, Dad."

"You're going to be wonderful," Haden assured her. "Hilde and I will be right in front, recording every moment for your mother. Just play from your heart, and everything else will follow."

As he turned to leave, Reyna impulsively reached out to hug him—a rare initiation of physical affection that seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. He returned the embrace warmly, then stepped back with a proud smile.

"Break a leg," he said. "Though not literally, please. Our health insurance has limits."

The joke, corny as it was, broke the last of Reyna's tension. "Go find your seat, Dad," she said, rolling her eyes but smiling. "We're on in fifteen minutes."

When they took the stage at two o'clock, the audience area was full—local residents and visitors gathered to enjoy music on a perfect autumn afternoon, Georgian Bay glittering behind the stage, trees around the park blazing with fall colors. Reyna spotted her father and sister in the front row as promised, Haden with a professional-looking camera on a tripod, Hilde holding a sign reading "NORTHERN LIGHTS ROCKS!" decorated with Norse symbols.

"Good afternoon, Thornbury," Reyna spoke into the microphone, her voice steadier than she had expected. "We're Northern Lights, and we're excited to share some music with you today. We'll be performing arrangements of traditional Norwegian folk songs as well as some original compositions inspired by our Scandinavian heritage."

As she began the opening notes of "The Sea Widow," Reyna felt a familiar calm descend—the focus that came with deep immersion in music, the connection to something larger than herself, the flow state where technical skill and emotional expression merged seamlessly. The band followed her lead perfectly, each member contributing their part to the whole, creating a sound that honored tradition while introducing contemporary elements.

The audience responded with attentive silence during the performance, then enthusiastic applause as the final notes faded. Encouraged by this reception, the band moved through their set with growing confidence—two more Norwegian pieces, followed by Reyna's original composition, a piece she had titled "Heritage Threads" in honor of their family project.

As they played the final song, Reyna found herself thinking of her mother in Oslo—imagining Kaja watching this recording in a few hours, connecting across distance through music and shared heritage. The thought brought a new dimension to her performance, a sense of playing not just for the present audience but for absent loved ones, for connections that transcended physical separation.

When the set ended, the applause was immediate and sustained—not just polite appreciation but genuine enthusiasm. Reyna thanked the audience, acknowledged her bandmates, and led them off stage with a mixture of relief and exhilaration. They had done it—performed on the main stage, shared their music with the community, created something meaningful from their exploration of heritage and contemporary expression.

"That was incredible!" Mika exclaimed as they reached the backstage area, her usual cool demeanor abandoned in the rush of post-performance adrenaline. "Did you hear how they responded to 'Heritage Threads'? They loved it!"

"We didn't suck," Jonas agreed, which from him constituted effusive praise. "The sound was good, the arrangements worked, no one threw tomatoes."

"A low bar, but we cleared it," Elias laughed, high-fiving each of them in turn. "Seriously though, that was our best performance yet. Everything came together perfectly."

Before Reyna could respond, her father and sister appeared, having been granted backstage access by the festival organizers. Hilde launched herself at Reyna in an enthusiastic hug, while Haden followed more sedately, though his pride was evident in his expression.

"You were amazing!" Hilde declared. "Everyone was saying so! The lady next to us said you should be recording professionally!"

"It was extraordinary," Haden confirmed more calmly. "All of you," he added, including the other band members in his praise. "The arrangements were sophisticated, the performance polished, the emotional impact significant."

"Thanks, Mr. Snjougla," Mika replied, the others nodding their agreement. "That means a lot."

"I got everything on video," Haden continued. "Multiple angles, professional audio feed from the sound board, even some audience reactions. Your mother will feel like she was here."

"When can we send it to her?" Reyna asked, suddenly eager to share the performance with Kaja despite the physical distance separating them.

"I'll edit it this evening," Haden promised. "We can send it before bedtime, which will be morning for her in Oslo."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant blur—packing up equipment, receiving congratulations from friends and community members, enjoying the festival atmosphere with a new sense of belonging and accomplishment. Reyna found herself more comfortable with the attention than she had expected, accepting compliments with growing grace rather than her usual deflection or dismissal.

By evening, they were home, the equipment safely stored, the initial excitement giving way to a quieter satisfaction. While Haden worked on editing the performance video in his office, Reyna and Hilde prepared a simple dinner, continuing their recent pattern of shared household responsibilities.

"Do you think Mom will like the video?" Hilde asked as she set the table, arranging everything with careful precision.

"She'll love it," Reyna assured her. "Especially your sign. Nice touch with the Norse symbols, by the way."

"Mr. Olsen helped me choose them," Hilde explained. "Protection and success runes, plus symbols for music and heritage. A complete magical support system."

"Of course it was," Reyna smiled, her tone fond rather than mocking. Her sister's dedication to Norse traditions and symbols had come to seem less like childish fantasy and more like a valid cultural connection, another way of maintaining bonds with their heritage and with their temporarily distant mother.

After dinner, they gathered in Haden's office to review the edited video before sending it to Kaja. The result of his work was impressive—professional-quality footage that captured both the performance itself and the audience response, with clear audio and thoughtful editing that highlighted key moments in each song.

"Dad, this is amazing," Reyna said, genuinely impressed by his technical skill. "It looks like a professional concert video."

"I may have gone slightly overboard," Haden admitted with a small smile. "But I wanted your mother to experience it as fully as possible."

"She's going to cry," Hilde predicted confidently. "Happy tears, but definitely crying."

"Probably," Reyna agreed, finding herself unexpectedly emotional at the thought of her mother watching this performance from thousands of miles away. "I kind of wish we could see her reaction."

"We could wait and send it during our video call tomorrow," Haden suggested. "That way we'd be connected while she watches."

"No," Reyna decided after a moment's consideration. "Send it tonight. She should experience it on her own first, have her genuine reaction without worrying about performing for us on camera. Then we can talk about it during the call tomorrow."

"That's very thoughtful," Haden observed, looking at his older daughter with appreciation for her emotional intelligence. "I think you're right."

They sent the video with a simple accompanying message:

Today's harvest festival performance. With love from all of us, but especially from the composer/arranger/performer who made us incredibly proud today.

The next morning, Reyna woke to find multiple text messages from her mother, sent during the Oslo morning while Thornbury still slept:

Just watched the performance video. No words adequate. Extraordinary music, extraordinary daughter. The arrangements are sophisticated beyond your years, the emotional depth remarkable. "Heritage Threads" brought me to tears (Hilde will say she predicted this). I felt connected across every mile. So proud of you, my amazing girl.

P.S. Your father's video production skills have reached new heights. Multiple camera angles! Professional audio! He missed his calling in documentary filmmaking.

P.P.S. Hilde's sign was perfect. I recognized the runes for protection and success. Mr. Olsen's influence, I assume.

The messages warmed Reyna, her mother's pride and specific observations about the performance meaning more than general praise would have. The reference to musicians in Oslo was particularly exciting—the possibility of connecting with Norwegian folk artists in their home context, of expanding her understanding of the traditions she had been exploring from a distance.

During their video call that afternoon, the performance dominated the conversation—Kaja asking detailed questions about Reyna's compositional choices, sharing observations about how certain elements connected to traditional Norwegian musical forms, suggesting resources for further exploration. The discussion was the most in-depth musical conversation they had ever had, parent and child connecting as fellow artists across the distance.

"I've been thinking," Kaja said toward the end of the call, "about how your musical journey parallels my textile explorations. We're both finding contemporary expressions of traditional forms, both using our art to explore heritage and connection."

"Dad said something similar before the performance," Reyna replied, pleased by the parallel. "About how my arrangements and your weavings are exploring the same themes in different media."

"He's becoming quite insightful," Kaja observed with a warm smile. "Therapy agrees with him."

"Don't tell him that," Reyna advised. "His head will get too big to fit through doorways."

The joke prompted laughter from everyone, a moment of shared humor that bridged the physical distance between them. As the call continued, touching on other family matters and plans for the October visit, Reyna found herself reflecting on how their communication had evolved during the separation—becoming in some ways more intentional, more focused, more appreciative of each connection.

In the weeks following the harvest festival performance, Reyna's musical journey continued to develop in new directions. Ms. Larsson, impressed by the band's success, encouraged them to record their arrangements and original compositions professionally, offering to connect them with a local studio owner who worked with emerging artists.

"This isn't just school project level work anymore," the teacher explained during a music class discussion. "What you're creating has cultural and artistic significance—a meaningful dialogue between traditional forms and contemporary expression, between Norwegian heritage and Canadian context."

The validation from a respected music educator further boosted Reyna's confidence, encouraging her to continue exploring the intersection of heritage and innovation in her compositions. She began working on new pieces for the band, drawing inspiration from additional Norwegian folk traditions while introducing elements from contemporary genres that interested her.

At home, preparations for the October visit to Oslo occupied increasing attention—practical arrangements for travel, discussions about what to pack, excitement about experiencing Norway firsthand rather than through research and family stories. For Reyna, the anticipation was multifaceted—looking forward to reuniting with her mother, curious about the country whose musical traditions had become so important to her work, eager to meet the Norwegian musicians Kaja had mentioned.

"What are you most excited about for the Oslo trip?" her father asked one evening as they prepared dinner together—a new routine that had developed during Kaja's absence, a time for conversation without the pressure of direct eye contact that sometimes made deeper discussions difficult for both of them.

"The music archives Ms. Larsson told me about," Reyna replied after considering the question. "And meeting actual Norwegian folk musicians. Getting to hear these traditions in their original context instead of just through recordings and sheet music."

"That makes sense," Haden nodded, chopping vegetables with improving skill. "It's one thing to study a tradition from a distance, another to experience it in its cultural home."

"Exactly. Like, I understand the technical elements of the music—the modal scales, the rhythmic patterns, the traditional instrumentation. But I want to feel how it lives in the culture, how it connects to the landscape and the history."

"That's a sophisticated perspective," Haden observed, glancing at his daughter with new appreciation. "Most teenagers would be more excited about shopping or sightseeing."

"Oh, I want to do that too," Reyna assured him with a small smile. "I'm not completely weird. But the music is the main thing. It's become... important to me. More than I expected when I started exploring it."

"Because it connects you to your heritage? Or because of how it's developed your own musical voice?"

"Both, I think," Reyna considered, surprised by her father's perceptive question. "At first it was just an interesting project, something different from the usual music class assignments. But then it became personal—a way to understand part of where I come from, but also a way to express things I was feeling about family and connection and... everything that's been happening with Mom being away."

The admission was more vulnerable than her usual communications with her father, a sign of their evolving relationship and her growing comfort with emotional expression.

"Art does that," Haden nodded understanding. "It gives form to feelings that might otherwise remain shapeless, helps us process experiences that are too complex for simple articulation."

"Is that how architecture works for you?" Reyna asked, genuinely curious about her father's creative process.

"Sometimes," Haden acknowledged. "Though architecture has more practical constraints than music or textiles. Buildings have to stand up, keep out rain, serve functional purposes. But yes, at its best, architecture is also emotional expression—creating spaces that evoke feelings, that shape experience, that tell stories about who we are and what we value."

"Like the church restoration," Reyna suggested, making connections to her father's current project. "It's not just about fixing structural problems, but about preserving something meaningful to the community, something that connects people to their heritage."

"Exactly," Haden smiled, clearly pleased by her understanding. "The technical challenges are significant, but they're in service to something larger—maintaining a physical connection to cultural history, to shared values and experiences across generations."

The conversation continued as they completed dinner preparation and called Hilde to the table, shifting to more practical matters but leaving Reyna with a sense of deepened connection to her father. These discussions—about creative process, about the intersection of technical skill and emotional expression, about the value of cultural heritage—were new territory in their relationship, evidence of growing mutual respect and shared interests despite their different artistic mediums.

As October approached, bringing with it the anticipated Oslo visit, Reyna found herself in a state of creative productivity—completing new arrangements for the band, preparing for their studio recording session, researching Norwegian musical archives and performance venues she hoped to visit. The work was both technically challenging and emotionally satisfying, providing focus during the final weeks of separation from her mother.

The night before their departure, as she packed her suitcase with careful attention to both practical needs and musical materials, Reyna reflected on the journey of the past months—not just her mother's physical journey to Oslo and their impending trip to join her there, but her own internal journey of artistic development and emotional growth.

She had begun the summer resistant and resentful of her mother's residency, seeing only the separation and disruption it would cause. Now, as fall deepened around them and the Oslo reunion approached, she could recognize the value of the experience—how it had stimulated her own creative exploration, strengthened her relationship with her father, deepened her understanding of her heritage, and ultimately enriched her sense of self and family.

Her guitar case stood ready beside her suitcase, containing not just the instrument itself but sheet music, recording equipment, and a notebook filled with questions for the Norwegian musicians she hoped to meet. The case represented her own journey—parallel to her mother's but distinct, a young artist finding her voice through engagement with tradition and innovation, through the challenge of separation and the discovery of new forms of connection.

Outside her window, Georgian Bay reflected the October moon, its surface rippled by autumn winds. Tomorrow they would fly across an ocean to reunite with Kaja, to experience firsthand the country whose cultural traditions had become so significant in their family's artistic explorations. The anticipation was both exciting and slightly anxiety-producing—would the reality match their expectations? Would the in-person reunion be as meaningful as they hoped? Would the connections they had maintained across distance translate smoothly to physical presence?

These questions remained to be answered, but Reyna faced them with growing confidence—in herself, in her music, in the family bonds that had proven resilient through separation. Whatever challenges or discoveries awaited in Oslo, she was ready to meet them with open eyes and an open heart, carrying her music as both shield and bridge in this next phase of their family journey.

 

Chapter 16

Hilde's perspective as the family reunited for winter holidays was that of the observer, the collector of moments and meanings. While the adults navigated their changing relationships and Reyna processed her emotions through music, Hilde watched and noted and quietly celebrated each sign of healing in their family's fabric.

But before that winter reunion could occur, there was the October visit to Oslo—a journey Hilde had been preparing for with characteristic thoroughness since the moment it was announced. Her suitcase had been packed and repacked multiple times, each iteration refined based on research about Norwegian weather, cultural norms, and the specific activities they had planned.

"Hilde, we're only going for a week," her father reminded her gently as he found her reorganizing her suitcase for the third time that day. "And they do have stores in Oslo if you forget something."

"I know," she replied, not looking up from her careful arrangement of clothing and supplies. "But proper preparation prevents poor performance. That's what Mr. Olsen says."

"Mr. Olsen says many things," Haden observed with a small smile. "Some more applicable to everyday life than others."

"This one is definitely applicable," Hilde insisted. "Especially when traveling to reconnect with family across great distances. The Norse took preparation for journeys very seriously."

"I'm sure they did," Haden agreed, recognizing the futility of arguing with his younger daughter when she had decided on a course of action. "Just make sure your suitcase meets the airline weight restrictions, okay? We don't want to pay excess baggage fees."

"I've weighed it three times," Hilde assured him. "It's exactly 2.3 pounds under the limit, which leaves room for small souvenirs."

"Of course it is," Haden nodded, continually amazed by his daughter's attention to detail. "Carry on, then. Dinner in thirty minutes."

As he left, Hilde returned to her packing, checking items against the meticulously prepared list in her notebook. Clothing appropriate for Oslo's October weather. Comfortable walking shoes for city exploration. Her contributions to the Heritage Threads project, carefully protected in a special folder. The protection charm Mr. Olsen had helped her create, which had traveled with her everywhere since her mother's departure.

And most importantly, the special gifts she had prepared for this reunion—small tokens that represented her understanding of their family's journey through separation and reconnection. For her mother, a handmade book containing pressed flowers and leaves from their garden in Thornbury, collected weekly since Kaja's departure, creating a visual calendar of the changing seasons she had missed. For Reyna, a carefully crafted playlist of Norwegian folk music recordings Mr. Olsen had shared from his personal collection, some rare and difficult to find through conventional sources. For her father, a small carved wooden figure Mr. Olsen had helped her create—Heimdall from Norse mythology, the watchful guardian of Bifröst, the rainbow bridge connecting realms.

These gifts, thoughtfully selected and prepared, represented Hilde's understanding of her family members' needs and interests—her mother's connection to home and nature, her sister's musical explorations, her father's protective instincts and newfound openness to mythological metaphors. They were physical manifestations of the attention she paid to those around her, the insights she gathered through quiet observation.

The journey to Oslo the next day was long but manageable, each leg unfolding according to plan—the drive to Toronto, the international flight to Amsterdam, the connecting flight to Oslo, the taxi to Kaja's apartment. Hilde approached the travel with the same methodical attention she brought to all significant undertakings, checking off mental milestones as they progressed, noting details that might be useful for future reference.

Reyna, beside her on the transatlantic flight, alternated between sleeping, listening to music, and engaging in surprisingly thoughtful conversations about their expectations for the visit. Their relationship had evolved during their mother's absence, moving from the typical older-younger sibling dynamic of tolerance and occasional annoyance to something more balanced—a growing mutual respect, a recognition of each other's strengths and insights.

"Are you nervous about seeing Mom?" Reyna asked during one of these conversations, her voice low to avoid disturbing other passengers in the darkened cabin.

"Not nervous exactly," Hilde considered. "More... curious. About how it will feel to be together in person after so long apart. About whether Oslo has changed her in ways we'll notice."

"That's what I've been wondering too," Reyna admitted. "If she'll seem different somehow. If we will to her."

"We've all changed," Hilde said with certainty. "That's what Mr. Olsen says happens during separations—people grow in different directions, then have to find new ways to fit together when they reunite."

"Like puzzle pieces changing shape," Reyna suggested, surprising Hilde with the poetic metaphor.

"Exactly like that," Hilde nodded approval. "But the picture they form together might be even better than before, if they can adapt to the new shapes."

Their father, seated across the aisle, had fallen asleep with an architectural journal open on his lap. Hilde studied his face in repose, noting the reduced tension around his eyes compared to the early weeks of separation, the evidence of his own adaptation and growth through the challenging experience.

"Dad's different," she observed quietly. "More present. More... emotionally available, I think is the term."

"The therapy helps," Reyna acknowledged. "Though don't tell him I said that. I'm supposed to be the cynical teenager who thinks therapy is for losers."

"But you don't think that," Hilde stated rather than asked, knowing her sister better than Reyna sometimes realized.

"No," Reyna admitted. "I think it's actually pretty brave. To face your issues instead of hiding from them. To try to be better even when it's uncomfortable."

"That's what I think too," Hilde agreed. "And I think Mom will notice the difference right away."

The reunion at Kaja's Oslo apartment was both emotional and slightly awkward—the joy of being physically together again after months of separation mixed with the initial uncertainty of how to navigate this new context. There were embraces, exclamations, moments of simply looking at each other with wonder at being in the same space after so long apart.

"You've all changed," Kaja observed after the initial greetings, echoing Hilde's earlier assessment. "Reyna, you're taller, I swear. Hilde, your hair is longer. And Haden..." she studied her husband with a warm smile, "you look more relaxed than I've seen you in years."

"Single parenting is famously relaxing," he replied with gentle irony, though his expression as he looked at his wife conveyed deeper emotions than his words suggested. "You look different too. More... vibrant somehow."

"That's what you said when you visited last month," Kaja reminded him. "As if I'm more fully inhabiting my skin."

"It's still true," Haden said simply. "Maybe even more so now."

Hilde watched this exchange with satisfaction, noting the ease of their interaction, the comfortable way they occupied space together despite the weeks of separation. The puzzle pieces were indeed changing shape, but finding new ways to fit together—perhaps even more securely than before.

The first evening in Oslo was deliberately low-key—a simple meal in Kaja's small apartment, conversation focused on immediate experiences and observations, everyone adjusting to the time difference and the reality of being together in this new context. Hilde, ever observant, noted how her mother moved through the space with confidence and familiarity, how the apartment reflected her artistic sensibility while incorporating elements of their family life—photographs from home, small mementos, the protection charm hanging by the door as promised.

"You've created a little piece of Thornbury here," Hilde observed as she helped clear the dinner dishes.

"I needed that connection," Kaja acknowledged. "Especially in the early weeks, when homesickness would hit unexpectedly. Having visual reminders of you all helped bridge the distance."

"Like our video calls and the Heritage Threads project," Hilde nodded understanding. "Different ways of maintaining connection across physical separation."

"Exactly," Kaja smiled, impressed as always by her younger daughter's insights. "Speaking of which, I can't wait to see what you've all brought for the project. But perhaps tomorrow, when we're less tired from travel?"

"Tomorrow is perfect," Hilde agreed. "I have everything organized and ready to share."

The next few days unfolded according to the carefully planned itinerary Kaja had prepared—a balance of tourist experiences, cultural immersion, and activities related to their Heritage Threads project. They visited Oslo's museums and historical sites, explored neighborhoods where Scandinavian design and architecture were showcased, and spent time at Kaja's residency studio, seeing firsthand the work she had been describing in their video calls.

For Hilde, the most meaningful experiences were those that connected directly to her mythology studies with Mr. Olsen—the Viking Ship Museum with its perfectly preserved vessels, the Historical Museum's collection of Norse artifacts, the Folk Museum's displays of traditional Norwegian life and customs. In these spaces, the stories and symbols she had been learning about took on physical form, providing context and deeper understanding of the cultural heritage she had been exploring from a distance.

"This is exactly how Mr. Olsen described it," she exclaimed in the Viking Ship Museum, studying the intricate carvings on the Oseberg ship. "The craftsmanship, the symbolic elements, the way practical function and artistic expression were integrated."

"Mr. Olsen has an excellent memory," Kaja observed, standing beside her daughter before the ancient vessel. "It's been many decades since he visited Norway, yet his descriptions were accurate enough for you to recognize what you're seeing."

"He says some things imprint themselves so deeply they become part of you," Hilde explained. "Like these ships were part of the Norse identity—not just transportation but expressions of their understanding of the world and their place in it."

"That's a sophisticated insight," Kaja said, looking at her daughter with fresh appreciation. "And very accurate. The ships were technological achievements, certainly, but also cultural statements, artistic expressions, even spiritual symbols."

"Like your weavings," Hilde suggested, making connections that delighted her mother. "Functional objects that also carry meaning and beauty."

"Yes," Kaja smiled. "That's a lovely parallel."

While Hilde immersed herself in mythological and historical discoveries, Reyna pursued her musical interests—visiting archives where traditional folk recordings were preserved, attending performances by contemporary musicians who incorporated Norwegian elements into their work, and even participating in a workshop led by a renowned folk violinist who had connections to Kaja through the residency program.

Haden, meanwhile, explored Oslo's architecture—both historic structures that reflected traditional Norwegian design principles and contemporary buildings that incorporated those influences into modern forms. His professional eye appreciated the technical achievements, while his growing emotional awareness allowed him to engage with the cultural and personal meanings embedded in the built environment.

Throughout these varied explorations, they came together regularly to share discoveries, to connect individual interests to their collective Heritage Threads project, to experience Oslo as both separate individuals and a unified family. Hilde observed these interactions with satisfaction, noting how each family member had developed in their own direction during the separation while maintaining the bonds that connected them to each other.

On their fourth day in Oslo, they gathered in Kaja's studio at the residency center for a formal sharing of their Heritage Threads contributions. The space was filled with natural light from large north-facing windows, Kaja's weavings in various stages of completion surrounding them, creating a fitting context for this family creative exchange.

"Who wants to begin?" Kaja asked once they were settled in a small seating area she had arranged for the occasion.

"I will," Hilde volunteered immediately, opening the special folder she had brought from home. "My contribution focuses on Norse mythology and symbols as expressions of cultural values and family connections."

She proceeded to share the materials she had prepared—illustrated summaries of key myths that reflected themes of separation and reunion, family bonds tested by distance and challenge, wisdom gained through journey and return. She had connected these ancient stories to their family's current experience, finding parallels that illuminated both the timeless nature of human relationships and the specific dynamics of their situation.

"This is extraordinary work, Hilde," Kaja said when she had finished her presentation. "The connections you've drawn between mythological patterns and our family experience are insightful and meaningful."

"Mr. Olsen helped me understand the deeper significance of the stories," Hilde acknowledged. "But the applications to our family came from my own observations."

"That's what makes it so powerful," Haden noted. "You've taken ancient wisdom and made it relevant to contemporary experience—our experience specifically."

Reyna presented next, sharing recordings and analyses of the Norwegian folk music she had been studying and adapting. She played examples of traditional forms, then demonstrated how she had incorporated elements into her own compositions, creating a dialogue between heritage and innovation, between Norwegian musical language and her Canadian context.

"The modal structures and rhythmic patterns of these traditional forms provided a foundation," she explained with growing confidence as she discussed her creative process. "But I wanted to introduce contemporary harmonies and instrumentation that reflected my own musical sensibilities and our current cultural context."

"The result is something that honors tradition while creating something new," Kaja observed. "Not mere imitation or preservation, but genuine creative dialogue across generations and geography."

Haden's contribution focused on architectural connections—how Norwegian design principles had influenced North American building traditions, particularly in areas with significant Scandinavian immigration like their region of Ontario. He shared photographs and drawings of structures that demonstrated these influences, including his own designs that incorporated elements from his heritage.

"The church restoration project has deepened my understanding of these connections," he explained, showing before-and-after images of the work in progress. "It's not just about preserving a historic structure, but about maintaining a physical link to cultural heritage, to the values and aesthetics that immigrants brought with them and adapted to their new context."

Finally, Kaja shared her weavings—the pieces she had been creating during the residency, including the centerpiece that incorporated elements from each of their contributions to the Heritage Threads project. The large-scale work was nearly complete now, its complex patterns revealing different aspects depending on viewing angle and distance, the gold threads running throughout as a unifying element.

"This represents our family," she explained as they studied the piece together. "Separate threads with distinct characteristics, woven together into a pattern that's stronger and more beautiful than any single element could be alone. The separation we've experienced hasn't weakened that weaving—if anything, it's highlighted the strength and flexibility of the connections between us."

The formal sharing concluded, they spent the remainder of the afternoon in Kaja's studio—examining her works in progress, discussing technical aspects of her craft, connecting her artistic explorations to their own creative endeavors. Hilde observed these interactions with quiet satisfaction, noting the genuine interest each family member showed in the others' work, the respectful attention they paid to different perspectives and approaches.

That evening, as they walked back to Kaja's apartment through Oslo's twilight streets, Hilde found herself between her parents, each holding one of her hands as they had when she was much younger. The gesture wasn't planned or discussed, just a natural expression of connection that felt both familiar and newly significant after the months of separation.

"This has been my favorite day," she announced, swinging their hands slightly as they walked. "Seeing all our Heritage Threads pieces together, understanding how they connect even though we created them separately."

"Mine too," Kaja agreed, squeezing her daughter's hand. "It's wonderful to see how you've each engaged with our heritage in your own way, finding personal meaning and connection."

"And how those individual explorations strengthen our collective understanding," Haden added. "Each perspective adding depth and dimension to the whole."

"Like a family," Hilde observed. "Different people with different strengths and interests, creating something together that's more than the sum of its parts."

"Exactly like a family," Kaja smiled. "Our family specifically."

The remaining days of their Oslo visit continued this pattern of both individual exploration and family connection—each pursuing particular interests while coming together regularly to share discoveries and experiences. For Hilde, these days were filled with observations and insights, with the collection of moments and meanings that would become part of her understanding of their family narrative.

She noted how her parents moved around each other with increasing ease and affection, the initial slight awkwardness of reunion giving way to comfortable intimacy. She observed Reyna's growing confidence as she engaged with Norwegian musicians, her sister's artistic voice strengthening through these connections to heritage and craft. She watched her father absorb architectural influences and cultural contexts, his professional eye and personal sensibility equally engaged in the experience.

And she collected her own discoveries—mythological connections made tangible through museum artifacts, cultural practices observed in daily Oslo life, Norwegian children her age whose experiences both paralleled and diverged from her own. These observations would become part of her ongoing contribution to the Heritage Threads project, enriching her understanding of the traditions and values that had shaped her family across generations and geography.

On their final evening in Oslo, they shared a special meal at a restaurant overlooking the fjord, the October sunset painting the water in shades of gold and purple reminiscent of Georgian Bay in autumn. The conversation flowed easily, touching on highlights of their visit, plans for Kaja's return the following month, and reflections on what they had each learned through the experience of separation and reunion.

"I've been thinking," Kaja said as they lingered over dessert, "about how this residency has affected us all. Not just my artistic development, which has been significant, but how it's created space for each of you to grow in your own ways."

"It has," Haden acknowledged. "Though not without challenges, especially at first. The adjustment wasn't easy for any of us."

"But necessary," Reyna added, surprising them with her perspective. "Looking back, I can see how the separation pushed me to develop my music more seriously, to find my own voice rather than just following assignments or expectations."

"And it helped Dad become more emotionally available," Hilde contributed matter-of-factly. "The therapy and single parenting forced him to engage differently than before."

"Thank you for that assessment, Dr. Hilde," Haden said dryly, though his smile indicated he wasn't truly offended by her observation.

"She's not wrong," Kaja noted, reaching across the table to take his hand. "You've changed, in the best possible ways. We all have."

"The question is," Haden said, his expression growing more serious, "how we maintain these positive changes when we're back together in our regular context. How we avoid falling into old patterns once the novelty of reunion wears off."

It was a perceptive question, one that demonstrated his emotional growth during the separation. The Haden of months ago might not have anticipated this challenge, might have assumed that reunion would simply resolve all difficulties without ongoing attention and effort.

"That's something I've been thinking about too," Kaja admitted. "The renovations to the house will help—creating physical spaces that support our new understanding of connection and independence. But we'll also need conscious practices, regular check-ins, continued attention to both individual needs and family bonds."

"Like maintenance on a building," Haden suggested, using an architectural metaphor that came naturally to him. "Regular inspection and care, not just crisis response when problems become severe."

"Exactly," Kaja smiled. "Preventative maintenance rather than emergency repair."

"We could continue some of the practices we developed during the separation," Reyna suggested. "Like the Heritage Threads project—finding ways to connect our individual interests and explorations to shared family themes."

"And regular rituals that maintain our connection to heritage and to each other," Hilde added. "Mr. Olsen says rituals are how humans make meaning visible, how we transform ordinary moments into significant experiences."

"Mr. Olsen continues to be a font of wisdom," Haden observed, his tone warm rather than dismissive. "And he's right about rituals. They provide structure and meaning, help us maintain awareness of what matters amid daily distractions."

As they continued discussing strategies for their post-reunion life, Hilde observed the thoughtfulness with which each family member approached the question, the genuine commitment to maintaining the growth they had experienced during the separation. This wasn't just talk, she sensed, but real intention—a shared determination to build on what they had learned, to create a family life that supported both individual development and collective connection.

The journey home to Thornbury was bittersweet—joy in the experiences they had shared tempered by the renewed separation from Kaja, though with the knowledge that her return was now just weeks away rather than months. On the flight, Hilde organized her notes and photographs from the visit, already thinking about how to incorporate these new insights into her Heritage Threads contribution.

"What was your favorite part of the trip?" her father asked as they crossed the Atlantic, Reyna asleep in the seat beside them.

Hilde considered the question seriously. "The Viking Ship Museum was amazing," she said after a moment. "And the Folk Museum where we could see how people lived in different time periods. But I think my favorite part was watching all of us together—how we've each changed but still fit together as a family."

Haden smiled at this characteristic response—practical experiences mentioned first, followed by the deeper observation that revealed her constant attention to family dynamics. "That was my favorite part too," he admitted. "Seeing how we've all grown through this experience, individually and together."

"Mom will be home in twenty-three days," Hilde noted, her mental calendar always precise. "Then we can continue growing together instead of apart."

"Twenty-three days," Haden repeated. "Not that you're counting."

"Of course I'm counting," Hilde replied seriously. "Anticipation is part of the experience. Mr. Olsen says the journey toward reunion is as significant as the reunion itself."

"Mr. Olsen and his Norse wisdom," Haden shook his head, but fondly. "Though I have to admit, he's been right about many things throughout this process."

"He usually is," Hilde agreed. "That's why I listen to him so carefully."

Back in Thornbury, life resumed its established patterns, though now with the countdown to Kaja's return providing structure and anticipation to their days. Hilde returned to school and her regular visits with Mr. Olsen, eager to share her Oslo experiences with the elderly Norwegian who had helped prepare her for the journey.

"You were right about everything," she told him during their first visit after the trip, spreading photographs across his kitchen table. "The ships, the museums, the feeling of connecting to heritage through physical artifacts and places."

"I'm glad the experience lived up to expectations," Mr. Olsen smiled, examining the photographs with interest. "And how was the family reunion aspect? Did you observe the changes you anticipated?"

"Yes," Hilde nodded enthusiastically. "Everyone has grown in different ways during the separation. Mom is more confident in her art and herself. Dad is more emotionally present and communicative. Reyna is more serious about her music and more comfortable expressing feelings."

"And you?" Mr. Olsen asked gently. "How have you changed through this experience?"

The question gave Hilde pause. She had been so focused on observing others that she had given less thought to her own development during the separation.

"I think..." she said slowly, "I've become more aware of how people connect across distances. How relationships can stretch without breaking. How change can strengthen rather than threaten family bonds."

"Important insights for someone your age," Mr. Olsen observed. "Many adults never fully grasp these truths."

"I've had good teachers," Hilde replied, including him in her grateful glance. "And I've been paying attention."

"You always do," the old man nodded. "That's your gift—seeing what others miss, understanding patterns that connect surface events to deeper meanings."

As the days passed and Kaja's return approached, Hilde continued her observations and preparations. She helped her father with final touches on the home renovations—the glass walkway connecting studio to main house now complete, the shared office space in the master suite area ready for use. She assisted Reyna with arrangements for the welcome home celebration they were planning—a surprise gathering that would showcase elements from each of their Heritage Threads contributions.

And she continued her own rituals—arranging rune stones in patterns of homecoming and reunion, collecting natural elements from their property to incorporate into welcome decorations, preparing the special gifts she had created for her mother's return. These activities weren't just practical preparations but symbolic actions, ways of making meaning visible as Mr. Olsen had taught her, of transforming anticipation into tangible expression.

The night before Kaja's return, Hilde stood at her bedroom window looking out at Georgian Bay, where November moonlight created a silver path across the dark water. In Oslo, her mother would be preparing for her journey home, perhaps looking out at the fjord under the same moon. The thought created a sense of connection across distance, a bridge between separate experiences soon to be reunited.

On her bedside table, the rune stones Mr. Olsen had given her were arranged in a pattern representing completion of a cycle—not an ending but a return with new wisdom, a homecoming that incorporated the growth of the journey. Beside them lay the protection charm she had carried throughout the separation, its purpose now shifting from maintaining connection across distance to supporting integration of separate experiences into a renewed whole.

Tomorrow, their family would be physically reunited after months of separation. But the true reunion, Hilde understood, had been happening gradually throughout the experience—through video calls and shared projects, through individual growth and maintained connections, through the conscious effort each family member had made to learn and develop through the challenge rather than merely enduring it.

The runes had revealed their meaning not through mystical transmission but through the attention and intention they inspired—the focus on what mattered, the recognition of patterns across time and space, the understanding that separation could strengthen rather than weaken bonds when approached with awareness and commitment.

As she prepared for sleep, Hilde felt a deep sense of satisfaction—not just anticipation of tomorrow's reunion, but appreciation for the journey they had all undertaken, separately and together, over these months of physical distance and emotional growth. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she was confident that their family had developed new resources to meet them—greater self-awareness, improved communication skills, deeper understanding of both individual needs and collective bonds.

Outside, Georgian Bay lapped gently against the shore, the rhythmic sound a reminder of continuity amid change, of patterns that persisted even as individual waves came and went. Inside, the house settled into nighttime quiet, three people sleeping under one roof while the fourth rested an ocean away, all connected by invisible threads of love and commitment that neither time nor distance could sever.