The afternoon sun broke through the clouds as we approached the police station to drop off our reports. The building itself was unremarkable, a single-story structure with a flagpole out front, but there was something about the way the shadows pooled around it that made the place feel older than it should have been.
Gunnar was waiting for us outside, leaning casually against the railing, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked like a man carved out of the mountains — solid, immovable.
"How'd it go?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
"Quiet," I said. "Too quiet."
He smirked slightly, like he understood more than he let on.
"That's Sauda for you. The forest swallows sound. You'll get used to it."
Maja didn't say much. She stood behind me, her arms crossed, her expression tight. I could tell she was holding something back, the way her eyes darted toward Gunnar and away again.
Gunnar flicked his cigarette into the gravel and crushed it under his boot.
"You'll meet me here tomorrow at eight. There's someone I want you to talk to. An old man, lives near the river. Knows the waters better than anyone."
"What's his name?" I asked.
"Jon," he said simply. "You'll see."
He walked away without another word, leaving me with the sense that our conversation had only scratched the surface of something far deeper.
---
That evening, I decided to take a walk on my own, to let the weight of the day settle. The streets were quiet, the lampposts humming faintly against the encroaching dusk. The air smelled of pine and something metallic, faint but persistent, as if the town itself exhaled it.
As I wandered, I noticed how people seemed to part for me. Not obviously — not with fear — but with a subtle deference. Smiles lingered longer than they should have, and conversations hushed as I passed. They were hiding something, but they wanted me to feel welcome while they did it.
There's something unsettling about kindness when you know it's not entirely honest.
I stopped by a small café near the square. It was nearly empty, just two elderly women by the window and a young barista behind the counter. I ordered coffee and sat by myself. The women whispered to each other, occasionally glancing my way. When I looked back, they smiled too sweetly, as if caught doing something they shouldn't.
The coffee was good — strong, almost bitter. I sipped slowly, taking in the room. Wooden walls covered in faded photos, the smell of cinnamon and something earthy I couldn't place. Cozy, yes. But also staged. Like everything here, it felt like a mask.
---
When I left the café, the sky had darkened to a deep blue. The river's surface glowed faintly under the moonlight, drawing me back to the bridge like a moth to flame. I stood there for a long time, watching the water shift and ripple in patterns I couldn't quite follow.
The melody returned.
Not in my ears this time, but inside my head, as if it had bypassed sound altogether. It was clearer now — still soft, still mournful, but with a strange undercurrent of power, like something ancient stretching after a long sleep.
I gripped the railing, leaning closer. My reflection stared back, and for a heartbeat, it wasn't me at all. The face in the water was pale, the hair drifting as if I were already submerged, and the eyes… the eyes were endless.
The melody swelled, and I felt my chest tighten, not with fear, but with longing.
A car passed behind me, snapping me out of it. When I looked again, my reflection was my own.
---
Back at the guesthouse, I locked the door and sat at the desk, trying to put words to what I'd felt. The pen scratched furiously across the page, my thoughts spilling out faster than I could form them.
The water is alive.
It isn't just part of the landscape — it's the heart of this place. Everything leads back to it. The people. The deaths. Even me.
I stared at what I'd written, the words looking back at me like a confession. My wrist itched, the faint mark glowing in the lamplight, almost imperceptibly but enough to make my stomach twist.
I pulled my sleeve down, hiding it even from myself.
---
Before bed, I opened the window just a crack to let in the night air. The breeze carried the smell of wet earth and something else — something sweet, like flowers left too long in water.
As I turned off the lamp, the room felt colder, but not empty.
Somewhere beyond the trees, the river sang.
And this time, I didn't try to ignore it.
Morning arrived gray and damp, the kind of morning where the clouds hang low enough to touch. I dressed quickly, ignoring the faint ache in my arm where the mark had been. It wasn't painful — just present, like a bruise you forget about until you move the wrong way.
Maja was waiting by the car when I stepped out. She gave me a small nod, her expression unreadable.
"Ready?" she asked.
"As I'll ever be."
We drove through the mist to the edge of town, where the road narrowed into a dirt track that seemed to disappear into the forest. The trees here were thicker, their branches twisted together, blocking out much of the light. The air smelled heavier, like wet leaves and something older, something I couldn't quite name.
After a while, a small cabin appeared between the trees. Smoke rose lazily from its chimney, and an old man sat on the porch, whittling at a piece of wood. This had to be Jon.
---
He looked up as we approached, his eyes sharp despite the deep lines on his face.
"You must be the investigator," he said, voice rough but steady.
"That's right," I said, stepping closer. "Mikkel Bekkholt."
He nodded slowly, as if the name meant something to him.
Maja stayed a few steps behind, watching quietly.
Jon gestured to the bench beside him. "Sit. You're here to ask about the water."
The directness of it caught me off guard.
"You know something about the drownings?"
He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.
"I know the water doesn't take without reason."
I sat, feeling the old wood creak under me.
"What do you mean by that?"
Jon's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's not the water you should be afraid of. It's the ones who think they can control it. They've been feeding it for generations, binding what should have been free."
My heart skipped a beat.
"Feeding it?"
He looked past me, toward the trees. "The town doesn't tell you that part. They keep their hands clean, but they all know. Every few years, someone goes missing. They say it's accidents. They say it's chance. But the truth? It's them."
I leaned forward.
"Who is them?"
"The ones who call themselves protectors," he said bitterly. "The ones who bind the water and pretend it's for the greater good."
---
I wanted to press him for more, but his hand suddenly shot out and grabbed mine. The grip was strong, far stronger than I expected from someone his age. Pain shot up my arm, sharp and electric, like nerves catching fire.
I yanked my hand back instinctively.
"Jesus, what was that?"
His eyes softened, almost regretful.
"Sorry. Old hands. Sometimes they sting."
I forced a laugh, shaking my hand to ease the pain.
"Yeah, must've hit a nerve or something."
When I looked down, there was a faint grayish mark where he had touched me, the color of the river at dusk. It was already fading, but not completely.
Jon's gaze lingered on me, unreadable.
"You'll have to choose, you know," he said quietly.
"Choose what?"
"Whether to stand with them or with the water."
Before I could respond, Maja stepped closer, clearing her throat.
"Time's up. We should go."
Jon leaned back, returning to his whittling as if the conversation had never happened.
"Be careful, Bekkholt," he said without looking at me.
"Of what?"
He smiled faintly.
"Of what you'll become."
---
The drive back was silent. Maja didn't ask what he had said, and I didn't offer it. My mind was a storm of questions I couldn't voice yet.
When we reached town, the mist had lifted, but the feeling in my chest hadn't. The people greeted me as warmly as ever, their smiles wide, their words sweet. But now I could see it — the way their eyes lingered, not with curiosity, but with calculation.
They weren't just waiting.
They were preparing.
---
Back in my room, I rolled up my sleeve. The mark from Jon's touch was still there, faint but unmistakable. I traced it with my finger, feeling a strange pull, as if it wasn't just on my skin but beneath it, spreading slowly.
I told myself it was nothing. Just a bruise. Just my imagination. It would be gone in a few days.