The water never tells. It only remembers.
They came before names, before fences, before shame.
Bare feet on frost-kissed moss. Fingers tangled in wool and wheat. Lips, not yet promised, brushed the wind that ran down from the high pines and slipped between thighs without asking permission.
The fjord watched. Still as a mirror. Deep as guilt. Wide enough to carry secrets on its back and never let them surface.
In the village, the mornings are soft. No one knocks before entering. Windows stay open. Clothes, when worn, fall off easily — not out of urgency, but familiarity. What is known is not feared. What is touched is not forbidden.
A wedding once unfolded under a sky of slow-moving clouds. The bride's dress was borrowed. The groom's eyes wandered. That night, two others met by the boathouse and fucked like it was a language no longer spoken aloud. They had been at the wedding. They had smiled at each other. That was enough.
Children are born here like poems — fathered by desire more often than men. No one asks. No one explains. And love? Love drifts, finds new skin, then circles back again like snow returning to melt where it began.
Every body carries its own story here. No shame, just water — moving, filling, pulsing through generations that no longer care for boundaries.
Because in this village, under this sky, beside this breathless blue...
...the fjord never sleeps.And neither do the hearts it holds.