the farmhouse crouches against icelandic earth as if it grew there purely by accident. a humble property with turf pressing into its roof, and wooden walls weathered to the colour of tree trunks. the kitchen ceiling slopes inward, timbered and dark; the window above the sink frames a singular square of black sky and gold stars. a kettle murmurs, not quite boiling, reluctant to break the peace. jars litter the shelves⸺ salt harvested from the coast, dried angelica, thyme clipped from a stubborn patch by the door. a loaf of rye rests on a board, its crust split and breathing, producing a heavy aroma of grain. something savory simmers in her pot, ( carrots, potatoes, garlic softening into bay leaf ) coating the place in a rich scent.
jane stands at the stove, sleeves pushed to her elbows. steam rises in deep sighs, carrying the smell of parsley and a sweetness she learned to coax out of onions if she was patient enough. SHE FINALLY MASTERED PATIENCE. vik í mýrdal taught it in the way the sea touches stone⸺ forcefully, insistently, repeatedly. cooking feels oddly important. she wants it to be perfect, for her sister to relax and feel held by the warmth; to appreciate the flowers tucked inside every free inch of space, the chipped mugs, the subtle styling; to notice how small everything is, how intentionally chosen, how lived-in. it is no regular night, after all. hosting, opening her doors to others in this home at the edge of the world is intimate in a manner she is still grasping.
@notavillain arrived later than expected; her car rumbled across the road as the afternoon thinned into the evening. it was far too late to go anywhere, to town or tread the long hikes often mounted in the light. she didn't mind, though... they have the whole week for adventures ! she actually preferred nancy seeing this aspect of her life first. THE EXTRA QUIET ONE. WHERE THE MERE SIGHT OF THE FARM IGNITES TREMENDOUS STRENGTH. jane began dinner as nancy settled into the cosy environment, unpacking and organising her belongings into the designated room.
she's barefoot on the worn plank floor, pink sweater slipping down her left shoulder; her hair, longer than ever, ordinary in a fashion that signals freedom, is pulled back in a messy braid. when nancy returns, all damp tresses and flushed cheeks as a result of her shower, jane immediately speaks: “ i am nearly finished ! smell good ? it's my favourite food to make. ” ( vegetable stew. hardly remarkable, but it's the simple things which fascinate her most these days. ) janessa keeps glancing at her guest, startled anew each time by her solidity. she's more than a voice on a crackling line, a photograph folded countless times, a memory smoothed thin by longing. NANCY IS HERE.
“ you'll meet the animals at breakfast. don't want to disturb them, now. too cold out. you will like them ! ” behind the house, the land inclines towards a river born from a glacier's slow forgetting. ives frequently walks there, boots moist with dew, breath frosting like pale ghosts, vanishing as quickly as old fears once had. she'd sit on a stone and let the water speak. it told stories without demanding anything, asked nothing of her but attention. she gave it freely. she can't wait to go tomorrow. “ it must be very different here. different to los angel - ease. ” she says, mixing spoon slowing as she leans forward, unlatching the window so the condensation can fully dissolve. “ you are happy there ? ”
STARTER CALL.