The rain had returned.
Not the cold kind, but the soft, curtain-like drizzle that made the whole village shimmer. Leaves darkened. Stone breathed. The fjord drank it in like thirst.
Astrid sat barefoot at the window of the cottage, a mug of cooling nettle tea in her hand, the memory of Våtnatt still humming beneath her skin. Her thighs still carried the echoes of touch — not bruises, but impressions. As if the village had written something onto her body in invisible ink.
A knock came.
Not on the door.
On the glass.
Mattis.
His hair was wet, slicked back, and he wore the same loose flannel shirt she'd seen him build saunas in. Behind him stood a woman. Tall, fine-boned, wrapped in a wool shawl the color of rust.
"May we come in?" Mattis asked gently.
Astrid only nodded.
Her name was Ingvild, and she did not blink often.
Her eyes were not cold — just still. Observing.
She sat across from Astrid while Mattis stood, hands in his pockets, eyes moving from Astrid's bare knees to the firewood stacked by the door.
"We thought…" Ingvild began, voice smooth as driftwood, "that it might be time."
Astrid tilted her head, unsure whether she was being offered something, or warned.
Mattis leaned down and placed something on the table: a knife.
Simple. Bone-handled. Sharp.
Astrid froze. Ingvild smiled — soft, not mocking.
"In Løvlund," Ingvild said, "we don't ask for trust. We carve it."
Mattis gently lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing a thin line above his hipbone — a scar, shaped like an open eye.
Ingvild mirrored the motion — hers lower, curved like a crescent moon across her belly.
"It's symbolic," she said. "Nothing forced. But... Mattis would like to give you something. And I would like to watch."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was ritual.
Astrid didn't answer with words.
She stood. Slid the knife toward herself. Took it gently by the hilt.
She walked to the hearth and knelt.
Mattis followed — his breath was slow, eyes full of something close to reverence.
Ingvild remained seated, unblinking.
Astrid unbuttoned her shirt and offered Mattis her left shoulder — the place between neck and blade.
He didn't touch her with his hands.
Only his lips — once, lightly, just below her collarbone.
Then, with the gentleness of a craftsman, he guided her fingers with his own, both of them holding the blade.
The cut was shallow.
Barely a whisper.
But it stung — and in that sting, Astrid felt a claim being made, not on her, but with her.
She gasped. Mattis kissed the skin again.
Then stood.
Ingvild rose and walked over.
She traced the fresh cut with the tip of her tongue.
"I'll be the memory," she said softly.
Later, when the sun began to break the rain, Astrid lay naked in the loft with Mattis on one side and Ingvild on the other.
They didn't fuck.
Not in the traditional sense.
They simply held her.
Touched her thighs with reverence.
Brushed fingers across her ribs, down her navel, into the folds of her warmth, with no urgency — just presence.
When Ingvild finally slid her hand between Astrid's legs and found the rhythm of her breath, Mattis watched. Eyes wet. Silent.
Astrid came in their arms.
Not as climax.
But as release.
And then fell asleep in their silence.
When she woke, the knife was gone.
But on the table was a small piece of birch bark.
And on it, carved by hand:
"You're not just being loved here.You're being remembered."