Chapter 22: The First Paragraph of Tomorrow

Chapter 22: The First Paragraph of Tomorrow

That same night, before the cold finished blocking our way on the terrace, Ethan and we exchanged social networks. The gesture felt natural, a way of silently telling us that we no longer wanted to be just two ghosts crossing paths on a beach at the end of the world. With my heart beating at a calm pace, I opened the app on my phone and uploaded the image we had taken: Norway behind us, the wine glasses freezing the moment and our gazes fixed on each other. At the bottom of the photo, I placed a phrase that perfectly summarized the journey of our souls in these four weeks:

"Two castaways, the same sea and the art of breathing again".

I closed the message with a question floating in the digital air: Our first photo together... will it be the last? I tagged it, put the phone away, and let the screen turn off.

Neither of them knew the exact story of the other yet. We knew about the pain, the desolation and the abandonment, but not the names of those who had hurt us, nor the dates, nor the details of the betrayal. It was not the time to put the finger on the sore spot; We both knew it out of pure survival instinct. The wounds that are closing are not touched abruptly.

We sat on the terrace, with the last glass of wine in hand and the living flame of the torch as the only witness of our complicity. Suddenly, Ethan broke the silence, staring at the swaying of the black waves in the distance.

"What will you do with the future, Astrid?" What are you going to do when you decide to leave Norway?

I took a sip of my wine, letting the sweetness warm my lips before answering him honestly.

"I have no idea, Ethan. But the advantage is that a writer like me can work anywhere in the world. I don't close myself to the possibilities of moving anywhere, or of getting to know new horizons. I feel that I have a lot to write about this experience, about all these experiences that tore me apart and put me back together here in Vik... But I also feel like I'm not ready to type again yet. I need the scars to finish settling on the skin.

Ethan turned his head toward me quickly. Her blue eyes lit up with genuine curiosity and a small smile, half surprised and half fascinated, curled into her lips.

"Are you a real writer?" He asked, settling into his chair to face me. What kind? What do you write