Before sunrise, she heard the knock again.
But it wasn't Liv.
This one came with no hesitation. Four raps, measured. Purposeful.
When Astrid opened the door, Ase stood there — the Widow, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak, hair pinned up like always, her eyes sharp as frost.
"Dress warmly," she said. "And follow me."
They walked in silence.
Up the winding slope behind the village, into the thicket where pine needles carpeted the earth and birds had not yet begun their morning chorus. The fjord below was still silver, smooth, untouched by wind.
Astrid's breath clouded as she walked.
She didn't ask where they were going. Something about Ase's gait — slow but certain — felt like a ritual. She was not being led. She was being initiated.
After an hour, they reached the grove.
Circular. Sheltered by rock. At its center, a clearing with moss-covered stones arranged like an altar. No flowers. No fire. Only a hush so thick it pressed against the ribs.
"Sit," Ase said.
Astrid obeyed.
The Widow stood opposite her, removed her cloak, and folded it neatly. Beneath, she wore nothing but age and pride.
Her body was weathered like driftwood. Wrinkled, loose in places, taut in others. Scars traced her stomach like constellations. Her nipples were long and dark, her sex a quiet mouth between powerful thighs.
Astrid looked.
And Ase let her.
"You're expecting me to teach you how to do something," Ase said, sitting slowly on the stone. "But not everything is done with hands or tongue. You've touched. Now learn to see."
"What am I watching?"
"Desire," Ase said. "Not yours. Mine."
The air trembled.
Ase closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and slowly let her hand slide between her legs. Not performative. Not pornographic. Honest. Like she had touched herself this way a thousand times under a thousand moons, and this was just another morning.
Astrid didn't move.
She watched.
Watched the way Ase's breath changed — deepening, widening. The way her spine shifted. The way her other hand cupped her breast not to arouse, but to anchor herself.
And then… the sound.
A soft exhale. Then a whisper: "Jaa… sånn…"
Norwegian, but Astrid understood.
Yes… like that.
Ase's pleasure was not spectacle — it was legacy. Her thighs trembled, mouth parted, eyes still closed. When her release came, it was not loud. Not desperate.
It was peaceful.
A soft moan. A trembling inhale. And then stillness.
She opened her eyes.
"Did you see it?" she asked.
Astrid nodded. Words failed her.
Ase smiled. "Good. Now you understand. Sometimes, to love this place, you must witness without needing to enter."
They walked back as the sun broke through the trees.
At the edge of the village, Ase stopped.
"You're falling in love with more than people, Astrid."
"I know."
"You're falling in love with a way of being."
Astrid looked at her hands, still warm from the stone.
"I don't think I can go back."
Ase tilted her head. "Then don't."
And with that, she disappeared into the morning fog.