Before Summer Begins
Spring was coming to an end in Oslo, and the campus felt like it was holding its breath before becoming something else.
The sky stayed pale, the daylight stretching longer than it should, and the wind drifting in from the fjord carried the clean smell of cold water, the kind of smell that makes people rethink their lives for no clear reason.
In the courtyard of the University of Oslo, three girls sat on a wooden bench, its paint worn thin by years of weather and waiting.
The bench faced a row of old cream-colored buildings, tall windows staring back, stone steps smoothed down by time. Students passed by some laughing, some rushing, some moving as if they were waiting for something they couldn’t quite name yet.
The girl she sat at the far end.
She wasn’t much of a talker. A notebook rested in her hands, though the page had been blank for fifteen minutes now. Her hair was tied back without much thought, a light jacket pulled close against the air that hadn’t fully warmed. Her face was calm, almost always calm. Not distant. Just… uninterested in being noticed.
People often said it felt easy to be around her.
Not because she entertained anyone, or knew the right things to say. It was the opposite. She listened. She stayed. And somehow, that was enough.
Inside her, there was a voice that never raised itself, but never went away either.
She wasn’t chasing a big dream she could explain neatly to other people. She just wanted to learn new things, about herself, about a world that felt wide and unfamiliar, yet quietly inviting.
Summer break was coming again.
And like every year before it, the season carried the same question with it:
Am I actually moving forward, or just standing still in a different view?
The two girls beside her were carrying their own quiet battles.
One looked confident, laughing a little louder than necessary, as if trying to convince herself she was at peace with the choices she’d made.
The other stayed quieter, restless, her eyes drifting back to her phone, as if another life was waiting there, one she hadn’t dared to step into yet.
They sat close together, but each of them was somewhere else entirely.
When the campus bell rang long, heavy, and old she lifted her head. The sound lingered with her as the Oslo sky slowly darkened. Something shifted in her chest, subtle but unmistakable: a curiosity, impatient, waiting for answers to feelings she’d never fully put into words.
That evening, she went home.
A small house on the edge of the city nothing fancy, but warm in the way lived-in places are. A house that held the sound of familiar footsteps, quiet laughter, old routines. Pale wooden walls, wide windows facing a small yard, bookshelves filled unevenly, and a dining table where the family often sat together without needing to say much.
The smell of warm tea and food met her at the door.
Her mother, gentle, but firm in the way that mattered, smiled and pulled her into a brief hug, as if she knew her daughter was tired in ways sleep couldn’t fix.
“You look worn out,” she said. “Come, sit.”
They talked about campus, about ordinary days passing by as they always did. Until her mother paused, then spoke more softly.
“I know you haven’t planned anything for the summer,” she said. “But what would you think about spending it in Lom?”
Lom.
A small town far from Oslo’s noise. Where her aunt lived. A place wrapped in mountains, part of the Jotunheimen range, with a clear river running calmly through the center, like the town’s quiet pulse.
Her mother spoke about Lom with warmth, about cleaner air, slower days. About a local bakery called Bakeriet i Lom, well known among locals and travelers alike, where fresh bread and cinnamon rolls rarely lasted until the afternoon.
“It’s small,” her mother said, “but there’s a lot to learn there. They’re taking student interns at the bakery. It’s… human. Close. Not like the campus always crowded, always rushing.”
The girl didn’t answer right away.
Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders. Her blue eyes sharp, but steady, always seemed to hold a distance between what she felt and what she showed. Her clothes were simple, all browns and creams, the kind of colors that felt more like autumn than summer. Quiet. Honest.
“Can I think about it?” she asked.
They talked late into the evening. Nothing heavy. No pressure. Her mother didn’t push she just stayed. And somewhere deep inside, the girl knew that this small town wasn’t an escape. It was an invitation.
A few days later, with her parents’ blessing and a small suitcase filled with books and clothes, she set off for Lom.
She took an express bus from Oslo’s main terminal loud, crowded, full of intersecting lives. The journey was long, five or six hours, passing open fields, blue lakes reflecting the sky, and mountains slowly drawing closer.
The bus stopped at small towns along the way places that felt like fragments of paintings.
In Otta, old stone buildings stood quietly, birds perched on lampposts, wind brushing through the leaves.
Through Gudbrandsdalen, green valleys opened wide, mountains holding the road gently in place, a clear river winding beneath bridges, loyal to the journey.
Until finally, Lom Sentrum a modest stop with small shops, simple buildings, and granite cliffs resting calmly in the distance.
Every place carried its own story.
She watched them pass from the window, letting them settle inside her, one by one.
When the bus finally stopped and the doors opened, mountain air greeted her, cooler, cleaner, unmistakably real. She stepped down with her small suitcase in hand.
She didn’t know what waited for her here. And for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to know. That summer didn’t arrive with promises.
It arrived as space.
And there, in a small town called Lom, her story truly began.
