Page 78 of These Tears

He must have re-routed it somehow. Pulled strings. Broken laws. Something.

My shoulders loosen by an inch, even so. At least I have my own clothes.

The white tiled floor reflects the harsh overhead lights, black-and-white signage glowing as if to underscore that same sense of finality he summoned at the start of the trip.

I trail after him to the exit.

Dread creeps up my throat when he tells me to put on the snowsuit. The fabric is thick and stuffy. I immediately hate it.

Elias shrugs into his snowsuit as if he’d done it a thousand times.

Now that the hope of rescue has faded entirely, a few drops of common sense grace my mind and I start wondering: fluent Norwegian, foreign mother, the conversation with the staff… He knows his way around. Because—

He’s home.

Christ, circumstances couldn’t have been more perfect, could they?

Was he already planning things in prison? Or is this something that came up when he received my letter?

I glance down at my navy suit, mulling one rotten thought after another, when my eyes land on him.

His nose wrinkles at my layers. ‘Should’ve bought orange. At least search and rescue might find you before spring.’ Then he mutters something incoherent that sounds like painting a bullseye for the animals.

The idea doesn’t even feel absurd. I can’t even attempt to reconcile the fact that something actually lives this far north, behind God’s knees, where the land looks unfinished and the sky presses low and heavy.

When we step outside, the air hits like a well-deserved slap, cutting through the layers.

Elias’ shoulders square, jaw locking. The crease between his brows deepens until he looks less like a man fleeing something and more like one marching towards it.

Behind us, the terminal doors sigh shut. Voices fade. Engines become a distant hum until all I can hear is our boots and the wind scraping over the snow.

We board a bus idling outside the airport. I try to memorise the route, but roads fold into roads, settlements thinning until snow and trees swallow everything between them.

Nothing is right. This is the Norway I wanted to photograph. White wilderness. Black pines. Mountains cutting into the sky. I should be seeing compositions everywhere. Instead, everything seems flat and lifeless.

Eventually, Elias reaches for the stop button.

My eyes flit from the endless pale expanse behind the window glass, back to him. Then back again. Panic surges wild in one single heartbeat.

The bus leaves us beside a lonely roadside sign with absolutely nothing around it. The trees are old and thick, crowding close. Two distant houses rise nearby, roofs bowed under snow, windows dark.

Elias doesn’t offer a single word as we walk ahead, the snow rhythmically protesting beneath our weight. My breath fogs in front of me raggedly.

And then… he turns. Guiding me off the road and into the trees.

My heart slams hard enough to blur my vision. The clatter of my cabin bag gives way to the snow. He takes it from me and picks up the other one to make the path easier to navigate.

Three steps later, I’m breathing too quickly. Five, and I can’t seem to fill my lungs at all.

‘Where are we going?’ I try again, my voice brittle.

‘Walk,’ he simply says. ‘Or we freeze here.’ He continues along the path, as though he knows I’ll follow him.

The trees thicken. Snow piles deeper, swallowing all sound.

The narrow track beneath us is the only proof that anyone comes this way at all.

We stop briefly for him to hide behind a tree to relieve himself. Then we keep walking.