Ahus

“Eira,” Albin said, appearing at his door as she passed. His hair stuck up like dry grass. “The nameless tide is tonight.”

Albin knelt at the edge. He could smell bread baking. He could hear someone humming. He wanted, more than anything, to step into that reflection. “Eira,” Albin said, appearing at his door as she passed

He took it.

Eira did not climb. She simply stood in the doorway, placed her palm on the worn oak, and whispered: Helena. Keep your silence one more night. He could smell bread baking

People who found Ahus by accident—lost hikers, fog-drifted sailors, children chasing lost kites—never found it again. They would later speak of a place where the air tasted of cold rosemary and old honey, where every window faced the water, and where an old woman named Eira always left a kettle on the stove. He took it