The sky spills its last light into the fjord, stretching gold and ember across the water like the slow exhale of a dream. Mountains rise on either side, dark and knowing, the kind of old that doesn’t flinch when the world changes. They just keep watching, keep waiting, like they know the real story has already been written in the ripples of the tide.

And there it is—just one. One small, wild thing splitting the air with the defiance of wings, cutting loose from the earth’s grip. It flies with no map, no second thoughts. A single motion, a single moment, and it’s already gone. A whisper in the wind, a flicker against the dusk, but real enough to remind you: some things were never meant to stay.

The fjord holds its silence, reflecting back everything and nothing all at once. Maybe that’s the trick of it—how the world moves even when it looks still, how the sky carries its ghosts, and how, every once in a while, something dares to fly right through the middle of it all.

The mountains lean in, as though holding secrets whispered only between themselves and the fading daylight. Shadows stretch deeper now, drawing long lines of quiet solitude across the fjord. You feel the day retreating slowly, softly, folding into itself as if the world decided, just for this moment, to hold its breath and listen.

Yet, beneath the stillness, something shifts. It's subtle—a tremble of air, a ripple barely breaking the mirrored surface. Life continues beneath the quiet, unnoticed and unspoken. It's in this delicate balance of fleeting beauty and persistent silence that you understand: nature writes its poetry not only in grand gestures but also in the tiny spaces between heartbeats, in the pause before the night fully takes hold.