Björn stood on the edge of his universe. Right where he was, the door lintel marked the fine line separating his whole life from the rest of the world. Outside, there was light. Dim, yes, but it illuminated nature nonetheless. Inside, the bubbling sound of the coffee on the Moka pot filled the space. So did the smell of it, and Björn felt at ease. For a second.
Standing on the wooden floor, his figure projected a long shadow. His bear-like, ample back tightened the fabric of his black winter jacket. The hood covered his head. The concerned frown on his face gave away the heaviness of his thoughts. He stood there, unbothered, as the boiling liquid started to evaporate. The shadow grew longer still.
Just as any strong-willed man would do during a storm, Björn stood there, looking at his hands. The hard work had roughened them, as the pain had done with his character. His hands used to have a perfect steadiness; now they shook, they trembled. Almost imperceptible, but he could notice it, and it was repulsing. He hated it so much.
It was the absolute absence of light that pulled Björn from the abyss of his contemplations. His muscles were sore from the stillness. The coffee, long gone. He took a step and exited the cabin, then sat on the wooden stair. He felt a pinch of excitement, of hope. Could this be the night he would stop being alone?
"How are you? How's everything going?", they would ask. And he always replied that he was fine, that life hadn't been easy on him but he had endured, he had conquered. But each time, as he answered, he could feel his chest tightening, the fierce grip of fear crushing his throat. His breathing, so shallow his lungs didn't fill, and he would think about death.
Every minute of every day, the memories of the past clouded Björn's mind, or rather stormed it. Always circling around, accumulating, and then pouring heavy all over his routine. He knew he couldn't stand lying anymore, and so he took off to the mountains, to his father's cabin in the woods. There, he hoped to find solace in the silence. With nothing but a typewriter, his beloved Moka pot, his hunting gear, and some canned goods, he left.
He was chasing a myth, an old legend, his last resort. Aurora borealis.
When the lights of dawn appeared on the far horizon, Björn knew for sure. He got up in a rush, put his winter boots on, and went outside. Oh, the smell of the snow, lingering in the air. This would be the day. The night. He believed so. An energetic rush toured his body, lightening his mood, and it prompted him to go for a hunt. Perhaps he could get a rabbit or two for dinner.
Hours later, carrying the products of his hunting efforts, Björn returned to the cabin. He stepped on the wooden stair that led to the door just in time to see the last remnant of daylight fade away. The different shades of deep blue tinted the skies. His heart started beating faster, as he stood on the edge of his universe, facing the snowy hills. His hands opened in an unconscious gesture; he was ready to let go. The dead rabbits dropped on the floor. He didn't even listen to the sound of it.
"Bjjjöorrnnn, bjjjöorrnnn, bjjjöorrnnn..."
The wind blew strong, carrying a white noise that reverberated through his core. It called his name, and he was willing to listen. Björn took a step forward and closed his eyes.
The winter breeze stroke his face. It was about to become a blizzard, but he didn't care. The air grew colder with every second that passed; not that time still existed for him.
"Openyoureeeyes...", screeched the breath of the sky, and as he did so, the Northern Lights lit up the mountain. They started a dazzling dance; particles of the Sun, attracted by the magnetic field, moved by it. Overwhelmed, Björn couldn't help but close his eyes again. "Aurora...", he whined; a pained tone on his voice, a longing at last expressed.
The coldness of the air penetrated Björn's thick clothes, his skin, his bones. The words it carried reached his heart, calming him, slowing his beats. His eyes were still closed, and he felt the locks of hair of a woman graze his cheek. One of them even caressed his bottom lip. A sensation that resembled five delicate fingers touched his chest and toured his multiple scars. Björn fell to his knees, almost forced to seat on the snow. He felt bare, exposed. Surrendered. "Aurora, Aurora..."
"Bjjjöorrnnn... Cometomeee..."
The next morning, a timid layer of snow covered the scene. A solid, human-shaped mound was noticeable under it, laying next to the wooden stairs of the small house. The cabin in the woods stood quiet; noiseless, empty, abandoned. Calm.
If you'd like to hear the one-hour soundtrack I listened to while writing this story, here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!
I'd like to thank you for reading this. I hope my words resonated with you in some way. This story is entirely fictional, yet I acknowledge that there's often a blurry, trembling line between fiction and reality. After all, what can be more chimerical than the reality we live in?
Sources of the images:
📷 by @warrkin. (Thank you so much for allowing me to showcase your beautiful work!).
Images of the paintings belong to me.