Midsummer approached like a secret passed from body to body.
The air changed.
Lingered longer between trees.Grew thick near the skin.Tasted of fennel, honey, and want.
Every villager felt it: the rhythm of something ancient stirring beneath the surface — not just of the fjord, but of the self.
The last time the ritual was performed, Astrid wasn't born.
Neither was Leif.
Even Åse was just a girl, watching from behind her mother's knees.
They called it the Binding.
No one explained what it meant.
Only that it was not about marriage. Or ownership. Or even love.
It was about claiming.Not each other — but presence.
It was about choosing someone to stand beside at the water's edge when the sun turned longest and the moon refused to blink.
And letting the fjord see you together.
Åse gathered the village in the meadow three nights before the solstice.
Her voice was firm.
"This year, we bring it back. All of it."
There were murmurs.
Gloria asked, "Even the silence?"
"Yes," Åse said."Especially the silence."
That night, Astrid found Elinor sitting alone by the edge of the water, scribbling.
A notebook — different than before. This one older, more worn.
Not leather-bound.Cloth-wrapped.
As if trying to disguise itself.
"You're writing again," Astrid said.
Elinor didn't look up.
"I never stopped."
A beat.
"Did you plan this?" Astrid asked. "The Binding?"
Elinor finally raised her eyes. "No. But I remembered it. I found the ritual in an old source. Pages no one else believed."
Astrid stepped closer.
"And now you want to lead it?"
Elinor smirked.
"I want to make sure it's not forgotten again."
Astrid narrowed her gaze.
"No. You want to make it yours."
Elinor stood, suddenly inches from her.
"And you don't?"
Astrid's breath caught.
Elinor stepped forward again — no space now. Just breath. Just eyes.
"You've become the village's tongue," Elinor whispered."But tongues can bite.And books can betray."
Astrid's fingers curled into fists.
But not from fear.
From something worse.
Recognition.
Later that night, Astrid lay beside Leif.
Not sleeping.
His arm was draped across her stomach, his breath steady.
But her mind buzzed with the fjord's rhythm.Its cycles.Its warnings.
The next morning, a notice appeared in the village square.
Written in ink none of them recognized.
"On Midsummer's Night, choose wisely.The fjord remembers who you stand beside."
No signature.
No handwriting anyone could place.
But Astrid knew.
The fjord had begun to speak for itself.