The fire burns low in the hearth, casting a warm glow upon these old wooden walls. I pause in my writing, resting my hand upon the smooth grain of my desk, and gaze out through the frosted window. Night has fallen over Lake Siljan, and the stars begin to scatter themselves across the dark sky like silver seeds.
The memory stirs within me now — the night I first saw the aurora dance above the fjords of Norway. That night remains in my heart like a jewel, shining with the light of wonder untouched by all the years between.
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It was the winter of my nineteenth year, and I had left my village behind at last, driven by a hunger to see what lay beyond the forests and hills I had known since birth. My boots carried me northward, along winding paths that led through valleys carved by ancient ice, across rivers half-bridged by snow and stone, past cottages where the light of hearth-fires glowed through thick-paned windows.
I reached the fjords at the close of day, as the sun, low upon the horizon, painted the sky in shades of crimson and gold. The water lay dark and still at the foot of towering cliffs, reflecting the last light like a great black mirror framed in fire.
I found shelter that night in a fisherman's hut — a small, sturdy place of rough-hewn timber that clung to the rock as if grown from it. The man who lived there — Olaf, a man with eyes like the sea and hands hardened by rope and oar — shared his bread and fish with me. We spoke little, for my tongue was shy, and his words were few, but there was kindness in the way he placed another log upon the fire, in the way he nodded toward the narrow cot where I might sleep.
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But sleep did not come.
Some call it restlessness, others longing; for me, it was the voice of the night itself that beckoned. I rose quietly, wrapped my cloak about me, and stepped out into the cold.
The world beyond the door was silence itself. The snow that lay upon the rocks and roof was pale in the starlight, and the fjord below was a strip of ink, so dark that it seemed the earth had opened to reveal the void beneath.
The air was sharp and clean, tasting of salt and frost. My breath rose in clouds before me, vanishing into the night.
And then — as if the heavens had drawn aside some hidden curtain — the aurora began.
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It began as a faint glow upon the northern horizon, a green fire so pale that at first I thought it a trick of my weary eyes. But it grew, spreading upward, a banner of light unfurling across the stars. The color deepened, green as spring leaves in sunlight, and then, as I watched, threads of pink and violet wove themselves through the green, shimmering, shifting, as if the sky itself breathed.
The light moved like water, like wind, like the song of the fjord upon the stones. It leaped and danced, it rippled and flowed, a silent symphony of color that filled the night with wonder.
I stood upon the cliff's edge, the snow crisp beneath my boots, and I felt myself smaller than I had ever felt before — smaller than the stones beneath my feet, smaller than the sea, smaller than the stars themselves.
And yet, in that smallness, I felt a great belonging — as if, for a moment, I was part of that dance, part of that light, part of the world's own heart.
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The cliffs rose black and sheer beside me, their faces etched with ice and time. The fjord below caught the light of the aurora, so that the water glowed faintly, as if lit from within by some ancient fire. The snow upon the ledges shone silver-green, and the pines that clung to the rocks stood dark against the glowing sky.
I watched as long as the night would grant me. The cold crept through my cloak, through my boots, through my bones, but I could not turn away. The light shifted and flowed, now bright, now dim, now racing across the heavens like a flame upon the wind.
Above it all, the stars shone steady, silent witnesses to the dance of the aurora.
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When at last the light faded, slipping back behind the veil of night, I stood alone beneath the quiet sky. The wind stirred, gentle and cold, and the fjord's voice rose again — a soft lapping of water upon stone, the world's breath returning to its slow rhythm.
I made my way back to the hut, my steps quiet upon the snow. Olaf slept, his face peaceful in the firelight's glow, and I lay upon the cot, my eyes closing at last. But even in sleep, the memory of that light remained, woven into my dreams, a thread of wonder I have carried with me through every land, across every sea.
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I write these words now, and as my pen moves upon the page, I see again that night above the fjord. I see the sky alive with color, feel the cold upon my skin, hear the silence that was not emptiness, but fullness — the fullness of a world that needs no voice to speak its beauty.
Outside, Lake Siljan lies still beneath the winter sky, and I wonder if, tonight, the aurora dances beyond the hills, unseen by my a
ging eyes, but as bright as ever in the memory of my soul.