“Albin.” Eira’s voice came from behind him, steady and low. “Don’t look at the water. Look at me.”
“It smells like her,” Albin whispered. Tears ran down his cheeks, cold in the fog. “Albin
“I know,” Eira said. She reached him. She did not grab him. She simply stood beside him, looking at the reflection. “I see Soren sometimes. In the tide. He’s young again, and he’s laughing, and he has his hand out. And I think: just one step . But then I remember that he told me to remember the names of the tides. And the nameless tide’s name—” She paused. “Its name is Alene . Alone. Because that’s what it leaves behind.” Tears ran down his cheeks, cold in the fog
He couldn’t turn. His neck was locked, his eyes fixed on the kitchen. He saw a woman’s hand—young, strong, with a silver ring—reach for the kettle. She did not grab him
Eira realized this at 8:47 PM, when she went to bring him a piece of the dark rye bread she had baked with rowan berries and a pinch of her own dried heather. His bed was made. His glass floats were arranged in a perfect spiral on the floor. A note, written in wobbly capitals, said: Gone to see the stones before they go away.
The hum grew louder. The teeth-stones began to vibrate.