Chapter 1 — Snowstorm Strangers

Freya

The snowstorm hit as Freya stepped off the plane, a relentless curtain of white swallowing the runways outside Reykjavík Airport. Through the wide glass windows, she watched thick flakes swirl in chaotic waves, blanketing the tarmac faster than the plows could clear it. The muffled sound of snow hitting the glass blended with the hum of distant announcements, their monotony both soothing and grating in the background.

Freya adjusted her scarf, pulling it higher against her neck as the scratchy wool irritated her skin. The airport smelled of freshly brewed coffee and faint disinfectant—a peculiar mix of warmth and sterility that seemed to mirror her current state of mind. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but her frustration wasn’t entirely about the storm. It was about being here at all.

Iceland hadn’t been part of the plan. Then again, neither had her life falling apart.

Her boots clicked against the polished floor as she weaved through clusters of stranded travelers. Families were lamenting missed connections, couples whispering reassurances, and lone passengers slumped in chairs, their weariness visible. A child wailed over a dropped toy. Freya tried to block it all out, but the scene only sharpened her awareness of the fact that she had no pressing destination—no one waiting for her.

She spotted an empty seat near the windows and dropped into it with a sigh, setting her bag between her feet. The snow fell in thick, soundless sheets, cloaking the world beyond. For a moment, everything felt suspended, as though the storm had paused time itself. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but note the irony—being stuck wasn’t exactly unfamiliar territory these days.

Freya pulled out her Aurora Journal, its worn leather cover cool and textured beneath her fingertips. She opened it to a blank page, the faint scent of ink rising as she flipped through entries filled with unsent letters and scattered thoughts.

*"Stranded in Reykjavík,"* she wrote with a quick flourish. *"I suppose there are worse places to be stuck. The airport is clean, at least. Efficient. Everyone here seems to know what they’re doing, which is more than I can say for myself."*

Her pen hesitated. The tangle of emotions beneath her sarcasm threatened to surface, and she snapped the journal shut before they could. As she shoved it back into her bag, the edge of her thumb brushed against the ink stain on her finger—a reminder of her restless scribblings and the thoughts she’d rather leave buried.

“Are you waiting for the shuttle to town, too?”

Freya looked up sharply. The man addressing her was tall, with a camera slung over his shoulder. The strap was frayed at the edges, a detail that suggested it had seen its share of adventures. His dark blond hair stuck out in windswept tufts, and his blue-gray eyes—calm and unhurried—seemed to take her measure in an instant.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice clipped.

He nodded toward the growing crowd near the shuttle desk. “It looks like there’s a delay. The snow’s causing trouble.” His Icelandic accent was subtle, rhythmic, and maddeningly calm.

“No surprises there,” Freya muttered, folding her arms.

The corner of his mouth twitched, though he didn’t move away. “I’m Eirik, by the way.”

“Freya,” she said flatly, hoping the curt reply would send him on his way.

Instead, he extended his hand. Freya stared at it for a beat too long before shaking it briefly. His grip was firm, his hand warm against her cold fingers—a detail she immediately resented noticing.

“They said the shuttles might be canceled,” he added. “Would you like to share a cab into town if that happens?”

Freya’s frown deepened. She wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—his presumption or the fact that he might be right. “I’ll wait and see,” she deflected.

“Fair enough.” Eirik gave her a faint smile before turning to speak with the shuttle desk attendant. Freya watched him out of the corner of her eye, irritated by his calm efficiency. She wasn’t used to people who seemed to navigate life so seamlessly.

Minutes ticked by. The crowd near the shuttle desk grew louder, frustration bubbling over in raised voices and hurried gestures. Freya’s gaze flicked to the flashing red notice on the board: *All services suspended.* She tightened her grip on her scarf. Spending the night in an airport wasn’t exactly appealing.

Eirik reappeared beside her, as though summoned by her thoughts. “It looks like sharing a cab is the best option now,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

Freya hesitated, pride warring with practicality. Outside, the snow continued its rhythmic onslaught, indifferent to her stubbornness. “Fine,” she said finally. “But only because I don’t fancy sleeping on one of those plastic chairs.”

His smile widened slightly, and she immediately regretted agreeing.

The cab ride was as awkward as she’d anticipated. Freya stared out the fogged window at the snow-draped streets, her reflection faint and distorted in the glass. Eirik exchanged directions with the driver in steady Icelandic, his voice low and deliberate.

“So,” Eirik began after a stretch of silence, “are you visiting Iceland for work or pleasure?”

“Neither,” she replied curtly, her breath clouding the window as she exhaled.

“Interesting,” he murmured, his tone light but curious.

Freya sighed, relenting slightly. “I’m here to... figure some things out.”

He nodded, as though that made perfect sense. “Iceland’s good for that.”

She glanced at him, skeptical. “And you? What’s your grand purpose for being here?”

“Work. Photography.” He motioned toward the camera resting on his lap.

“Ah,” Freya quipped, her sarcasm sharpening. “Let me guess—another wanderer looking for the meaning of life?”

Eirik chuckled softly, his breath visible in the cold air of the cab. “Not quite. Just trying to capture something honest.”

Freya blinked, caught off guard by his response. “Well, good luck with that,” she muttered, unsure whether she was mocking him or herself.

He smiled faintly. “And you? Writer?”

Freya frowned. “How did you—”

“You have ink on your fingers,” he said simply, nodding toward her hand.

She tucked her hand into her pocket, flustered. “Observant, aren’t you?”

“It’s part of the job,” he replied with an easy shrug.

Freya turned back to the window, trying to ignore the faint smile tugging at her lips. Beyond the glass, the snowstorm had softened to a steady flurry, the pale light casting a golden glow over the untouched drifts.

“This storm,” Eirik said quietly, his gaze fixed on the landscape, “you can’t plan for something like this. But it leaves the world looking... almost untouched.”

Freya followed his line of sight, the world outside a study in contrasts—snow blanketing jagged rocks, light and shadow waltzing across the unbroken expanse. She wanted to roll her eyes, but something in his tone stopped her.

“It’s... something, I suppose,” she admitted grudgingly.

Eirik turned to her, a soft, genuine smile on his face. “That’s a start.”

The cab pulled into the driveway of Helga’s inn, its wooden beams dusted with snow. Freya stepped out, the icy air biting at her cheeks. She tightened her scarf and glanced back at Eirik as he reached for his camera bag.

“Thanks for sharing the ride,” she said, her voice laced with her usual sarcasm. “Let’s not make a habit of it.”

Eirik chuckled, his breath curling in the frosty air. “Agreed. Though you never know—we might be stuck together longer than you expect.”

Freya rolled her eyes and turned toward the inn, muttering under her breath. Yet as the door swung open and a rush of warmth enveloped her, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Eirik’s words carried an odd weight, like a challenge she wasn’t ready to face.