Thelma

At the edge of the Arctic fjord, the perpetual midnight sun paints the water in shifting shades of bronze, copper, and sapphire, while misted peaks glow with rose‑pink halos. A solitary gentleman, aristocratic in bearing, reclines on a rug of animal skins, his hazel eyes fixed on the celestial display as he muses on the fleeting beauty before him. Though a modern skeptic, he feels a fleeting stir of mysticism, recalling childhood verses and distant ballads.

He watches the horizon for the return of his yacht, which had taken three friends to the nearby island of Seiland, its towering glacier a silent sentinel. The silence is so complete that even the cry of gulls is absent, sharpening his sense that the world has paused for a brief, breath‑holding moment. As the sun deepens its violet‑purple glow, the scene invites him—and the listener—to contemplate the thin line between rational doubt and the allure of the unseen.